It touches everything,
the fog, each tree, each
home, each shoulder,
each street, and drapes
us with uncertainty. It
blurs our lines and softens
the boundary where one thing
ends and another begins—
the boat and the water, the peach
and the branch, the farmer and
the farmer’s wife. Why prefer
a clarity, an empty blue bell-ringing
sky when the fog, it holds
us all so unconditionally.
It will be clear
soon enough.