Page 61 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #11

Sonoma Fog
Raanana, June 10, 2015
You find yourself between night and morning, Can’t sleep anymore.
You boil the coffee
And hold the steaming mug with both hands
As you stand on the old wood porch
Watching the grey fog roll down the mountain Toward you like an avalanche of ghostly silence, Insistent like an unrepentant memory of childhood, But gentle, timorous,
As it nuzzles against you.
It moves into the house
Almost consciously through every room, Sniffing the bed,
Looking for her.
You want to tell it she’s not here
But the fog swallows your words and, Anyway there is no one to hear them.
52