distorted by a phase shift, fog, or dream,
sidles up against my waiting thought -
could I be your poem? but says no more
It's gray, and has some drape or flounce of fabric,
holes that could be lace, or rags,
a shuffle and a flutter -
if I'm still, maybe it will come closer
This could be the price of reading all day
yesterday, and even for some hours today
(though I did dredge up some discipline
to do some chores)
Sunset came anyway,
colors mirroring the fire,
even its shapes echoing the logs,
while fog crept up beneath it ...
granting grace in giving me the sight
before it swiftly rolled off into night.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 23, 2022
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