Random Beloved poem

I love the fog. I wish it was here more often than it comes. But fog, like many of my wishes, slips quietly through my fingers.

Leaving work on Thursday I was surprised at how thick the fog was. I couldn't see the parking lot from my office building. It's like the entire building just decided to leave it's boring daily routine and lift it's concrete roots to float up into the clouds.

On the drive home I was staring off into the cloudy mass and I saw a huge perfect circle in the sky. I thought it was the Moon. But it was just too massive. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Then I realized it was the Sun. I was in awe at the moment I was granted to be able to stare. Fully seeing the Majesty of it without having my eyes hurt from it's brightness. It was magical.


I was driving on the free way with some girlfriends late on Friday night. The off ramps looked more like a dock. The road ten feet in front of us would disappear and seem that if we kept driving the car would dive off the edge into a lake of mist. Not being able to see where I was going didn't stop me from driving. (Even driving a bit fast for the weather circumstances.) But it made the drive funner. I had to focus. I actually felt the distance of road that I covered, instead of looking for recognizable buildings or signs. I drove more gracefully and quietly along the painted lines. Moving silently like a ghost. Not being seen and not seeing.

Fog is poetic and beautiful. It needs no definition for why I love it or why it is the way it is. But I wanted to post a great poem by Carl Sandburg that simply helps fog's personality to be understood.


FOG

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

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