the skies are grey
and misted with fog–
painted with a thick monochromatic palette
that soothes grey eyes
and wraps gauzey hues around the winter sun–
throwing everything into still silhouettes
with hard outlines
against soft intakes of steamy breath

walking through the fog
my thoughts fall into place–
light, tree, another tree, another light, sidewalk…
i watch my breath,
the dog’s tags clink against each other–
i hear the geese in the distance,
and there
someone scrapes the frost from a windshield
and then
a duck flaps its wings on the dock
and when
my hands grow too cold
i turn around and start walking home–
light, tree, another tree, another light, sidewalk…

it was there in that field,
on that day,
in the frost-filled december breeze–
that i recalled the gold waves in your hair
and the way the sun reflected
our youthful dreams on cold country roads
while we sped on the back of an old 70’s Yamaha
as i held on to you for my dear little life

On a morning filled with fog,
what is reality and what is perception
become joined seemlessly
and quietly and desperately.

that you were lonely?
that you once loved and were loved in return?
that you saw the sun rise and the deer run?
that you travelled long distances with the wind at your back?
that you wanted to sleep forever?
what story could you tell me that i don’t already know?

the moody skies of december
shimmer like cool sheets of steel–
i struggle to remember
the soft, sultry breezes and
warm horizons in september