A meditation on the seasons when it is most foggy in the Sunset District of San Francisco … summer and winter. The poem is from the middle of the pandemic when my second book, Cloudbreak came out. Still feels true as I gaze into fog this morning. It almost looks like a blizzard whiteout. It is fifty-eight degrees right now at almost 11:00 AM. I am not complaining. Really.
In Place
Scrolling old pictures on my phone
I see us before the pandemic,
a year and a half ago, at least a decade ago.
I was younger. Fewer lines.
My book came out in June, just six months past.
Certainly at least a decade ago.
Each day streams by in a second. Each hour is slow.
Each day is the same.
Time trundles into day into night into day.
So many pistachios shelled,
plates loaded into the dishwasher,
news read and regretted.
Fog rolls over, then dematerializes.
Eternities of mist, clouds, sky,
all ignoring our gnat concerns.
A comfort, that.
Heather Saunders Estes 
Yes, indeed. Time is streaming by (good use of that word – so many meanings)! 🙂
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