Perhaps being in a fog isn’t all bad. Or
maybe it’s about coming of age in the late ‘60s and now living into the far
side of my own 60s that loves the oak leaves more gold in mid-winter than in
lush summer or even in autumn’s splendor.
Fire. Ashes. And what’s passed through.
The grey fog. Sepia. Subtleties.
It could be in the hint of a pathway into
the damp grey, not so far away, and yet teasing past vision’s presumption. It’s
in a quality of light beyond the silhouetted knowns. And the presence of some who’ve already ventured there.
