h1

a fog

November 27, 2006

Another glance out this morning, into the cold where I trek between my home and my employment, often in stiff silence. The air is wet and smells of dying things, of rotting tomatoes. It slides of the skin and whispers in the ear the words of late fall, “I am changing,” and leaves a muck trails across your hands as a reminder.

A fog lingers under the first rays of sun. It is thin, like the smoky haze after a fire, too thick too be scattered by the wind. A frosting on glass, a veil around the world that threatened, not to consume, but to hide. The smallest details hidden from view. The exact color of his shirt, the thing she holds in her hand.

The number on that license plate. The smell of the coffee from next door is masked. It hides the handshake from the cab driver who loads her bags into the trunk. It hides the way she says goodbye before she goes. It hides the beginnings of his smile as the car door closes.

It conceals the terse response to agitation, the feeble cry of the infant. It covers, and conquers, slowly. The thin fog surrounds, and it slides across your face, hiding your own thoughts from you, hiding your words. And it leaves a muck trail of forgetting as a reminder.

And it hides and hides. It hides.

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3 comments

  1. *hug* I like it.

    It also warms my heart that others I admire make typos.


  2. “And it leaves a muck trail of forgetting as a reminder”

    I love that image.

    This is a lovely piece. Is it complete in and of itself, or is it the start of something else? It could go either way….


  3. Wonderfully written! *hugs* It got me to pause and image every single detail in my mind.



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