the fog

fingertips the size of Himalayan peaks drape a thin veil over the concrete high-rise insignia of a city of a culture without and within a deeper knowing of a season’s change; of imminence, of being neither here nor there.

what has begun began long ago

before Winter had a name a deep chill shook the bones of those I call ancestors; darkness fell in steady cascade to shorter days longer nights, an acceleration to where? to when? to here, again.

a lone raindrop kisses my eye— I blink it seeps into me;

this water becomes my body and I am the sky the cloud the river the ocean

ethereal

the fog enchants me with condensation to see things for what they are and what could be.