I stood at the tip of the dock
looking out over
that salty water.
The fog had come slowly
that morning,
seeping into the harbor
and quietly covering
the shore.
Mussel gathering at noontime
was raw and wet.
The chilled water numbed my fingers
until feeling
no longer pulsed through them
and blood flowed easily
from popped blisters,
earned yesterday while chopping wood.
Later,
when the rain let up a bit,
I stood,
arms spread wide
on the rock wall
holding human from ocean,
and ocean from human;
determined to keep all stray children
from wandering, helpless
into the hands
of reckless waves.
I closed my fingers
that day,
around a wispy strand
of fog,
drifting gently through the breeze
and quickly learned
the art of fog catching.
You had to stand
silently;
wait until the slightest breeze
floated by and then,
you had caught it:
the pure and perfect
essence of fall mornings,
fog.
Audio download:
mediaRecorder_59b874c4ca80a.ogg.mp3- Love to write's blog
- Sprout
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gg
Sep 11, 2017
Your images bring to mind so many things. Sensory detail. So powerful, so effective.
Thanks for this.
gg