Growing up in New England, over 50 miles from the ocean, fog was rare and exotic weather when I was growing up. My Dad would tell me about the pea soup fog in London and I imagined getting lost. Living in San Francisco, 2 miles from the ocean fog is a very frequent visitor and I experience its different moods and manifestations. Here is another fog poem. I hope you enjoy. Happy Halloween!
Asking the Fog to Speak
The fog answers me with the wet whisper of a drizzle
and roars of whipping tree branches.
It speaks both languages and more.
Motion it says, Direction.
Sink, heavy —pour.
Rise up and let go.
Dissolve, dissipate and disappear.
It knows itself
to be substance of dinosaur talons,
and lava, redwoods, salmon,
glaciers, meteors, and suns.
A circular river
between earth and sky—
You too, it says. Join me.