Fog by Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
This morning came with fog and it was welcome. I walked across campus and everything from the neck up was shrouded in a layer of mist. A subtle, sweet flavor in every inhale and cold, gentle tingles in my eyes with every blink. Whenever fog arrives, I remember the poem Stephanie showed to me when we were children. Its impression has stuck around a good fifteen years or so since, and I was reluctant to go inside and start my work day, knowing that it would be gone by the time I returned.
{polaroid: dividing the sky}
© kimberly k taylor, all rights reserved
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