Fog and Poetry

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.

 

As I sat here today preparing Christmas gifts and cards for mailing, I looked up and was surprised to see white everywhere.  It was only a couple of hours ago that I had opened the drapes to find a blue sky sparkling on the horizon.  Now, the fog has crept o’er the land enveloping everything it touches into its fold.  The trees were the first to go and then houses further away.  Now, the house across the cul-de-sac is barely visible through the thickening fog.  It’s quiet, almost eerie, as the sounds of traffic and movement are absorbed much like the view.  Perhaps, this too is an ice fog which will leave a fresh glaze on trees and shrubs and replace that that was melted from a previous foggy day.  When the sun returns, the world will once again sparkle and shine like no other place I’ve seen.

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