In a Fog

It was a gloriously foggy morning out there in the forest at o'dark thirty. I actually watched the mist coming down the mountain last evening after I got home. Just another little gift that was mine to observe for the first time.

It put me in mind of the very first time I was introduced to Carl Sandburg's poetry via his work, "Fog" (read by a wonderful teacher when I was all of 14 years old):
The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

It was also my introduction to the magic of poetry. In those 21 uncomplicated words an entire, and entirely complex vision became reality. In the perhaps 30 seconds it took her to read the poem, I was transported out of that Michigan classroom and stood shivering at the damp edge of the sea. It wasn't just an Aha Moment. It was a HOLY SHIT! Moment. A Defining Moment. In my snap back to reality, I knew that I wanted to be able to do that. Desperately wanted to. It didn't matter to me if I could, if I'd ever be any good, only that I wanted it... the ability to take a few simple words, string them together, and force that far-away look into another person's eyes. Whether I ever have or not, can't say with any surety. I don't (and never would!) claim to possess the poetic acuity that Sandburg did; all I know is that it feels damned good to be able to write. To be able to spill a feeling I can't otherwise define.

And this is what came last night...

An Understanding
like fog down the mountain
your love comes
silent slow
enfolding
and disarming
you weave this mist
move in me
without a breath
without sound
so blindly
I pick my way
with care
knowing the brush of fir
and scent of morning
© Barbara A. Black - 2008