POEM

The Fog

Some say strong winds and hard rain sing,

but I love the more subtle things:

stillness as mists make frost and dew,

the time between crickets and wren

before the cruel light crawls in

and work takes me away from you.

Drunk with sleep but almost aware

that we are more real than dreams,

but much less sure and far more rare.

Not cold silence, that’s too extreme

though the loudest leaves go quiet

as fog fills in what we forget.

The sun starts showing silhouettes.

Stalled clocks whisper: “Not yet. Not yet.”

— Paul Jones