The Fog
The smoky air swirls silently - - - -
intent on gathering souls.
Stifled sounds muffle along the street.
Echoes slink apart and fold.
A Vague shape forms in the mist - - - -
as someone comes.
Soft, sinewy moisture snuggles up
my leg - - - and runs.
I am mystified - - - intensified.
I peer into thge mist willing my eyes to see
more than they can.
I am humidified - - - mortified.
Recognition sparks and dies.
My vision looks and lies.
My ears hear and deny;
they also lie.
Walking in the fog
is like falling off a log.
Once you're done - - -
it was fun.
By Annette Gagliardi
Published in Nature's Echoes, 2000.