Sometimes in the evening
I can see the silver-gray fog,
like a billow of cotton candy
spun from air and water,
creeping silently up the hill,
toward the house where I live.
I go to sleep looking out
the bedroom window
across the valley at the
night shapes of mountains
and the dark countryside
dotted with street lamps
and houses.
But when I wake in the
middle of the night,
the fog has reached the
windowsill, and I am
in a magic house flying
just above the clouds.
Some nights the fog climbs
even higher while I sleep
and makes the moonlight eerie.
The windows become translucent.
The bare oak tree outside
the windows, a line drawing
in charcoal, softly smudged.
Photo Credit: John Keiffer
