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FogFive square brown cartons heldthe measure of our daily lives; the sixth, the books to mend my soul. Atop our car in plastic shrouds we bore them eastward for a summer by the sea. Toward sun, long ocean views, brisk air and change in parallel worlds we flew. Fog met us at the cabin door; welcomes us with clammy touch and settled in to stay. It tarnished black the weathered silver of our cabin's sides and hid the searching lighthouse beam. With stately grace it moved across the water—in and out, but never far away. If muffled footsteps, foghorns, voices; silenced clanging buoy bells; wound silence tight around us. The fire roared in vain. The chill, heart-deep, would not be banished. The fog in my eyes and in my bones, I could not see my way. He drew the mist around him close and in his curtained fortress passed time with his muse, not caring. Spring 1999 |
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Issue #15, April, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.