|Hudson Valley in fog|
This time it sits like fog in her visual field,
fog like pea soup along the Hudson River, thick
and unrelenting, it absorbs the light that tries
to penetrate it, all the “why don’t yous” and hugs
get lost in the grey thickness of despondency.
This time it sits like cotton balls in her ears, sound
muffled and balance off, so if she stood she might
get lost or fall and hit her head and sink in a
pothole so big she'd need to be towed out, fog horns
blasting, embarrassing her like her car alarm.
This time the similes prompt her to write, to be
amused that she's chewing cookie after cookie,
the stash open on the coffee table between
herself and the TV, tuned in to anything,
and her still sitting, not moving to get paper.
This time she knows the fog can't stay. Her mood
lifts it. She hasn't much patience for old stories,
just two more cookies worth before she stands, opens
the door and ushers fog into the night. This time
she notices that sight and sound and light return.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
© 2018 Susan L. Chast