Quiet Wins

I’m promising her I’ll notice

The grains of sand
One by one falling away

The fog, that had cooled her head
Rolling back, uncool, after all

The once-silent roar
The power regained

Now since she’s picked up her mat

At All

How long’s it been, baby
Since a wind came to your window
A breeze of the bilowy sort
And though it arrived loud
Quieted you?

How many days, mama
The fog, it clogged your lungs
A freedive into the depths
And through its grey unknown
Empowered you?

Miss the Forest

I think I comprehend the incomprehensible, the reprehensible, I think.

I guess the fog plans to stay and behave as more than a mere misbehaving vapor, I guess.

Certainly courage or cowardice or the wordless touch of one true friend will keep me from certainty.

Knuckle Ball

I hope there’ll be fog
And some small clearing
And though I cannot command it
It seems
The situation would demand it
Given all the blind searching
The hanging heavy in the air
The questions
The confusions
The rain always looming off-shore 
I want the Sun to wait in complete quiet 
Just that once
As it bounces inside with anticipation 
Over who is about to receive his newly perfected knuckle ball 

Warm Front

Mere meters from me
A lone lighthouse 
Must stand -it must
The fog its job to daze me
I close my eyes and long-last see 
Standing there solitary
But tall
Sending out three calls
Hoping high
The no-longer-lost craft will yield
And find her port
What to believe in this fog