Near the Gulf Coast we live with fog intimately.
It's vocabulary and syntax we have acquired
As much as Eskimos are fluent in the tongue of snow.
When the sun emerges above this gauzy veil
The ground fog glows like God's grace
As if it were emitting its own light.
Close to where the Brazos meanders to its mouth
I watch a wintry dawn burn off sheets of haze
And lift them from high places and the highways.
I can taste the salty trace it leaves on my lips
As the remnant of a marine layer that moved inland
Dissolves into thin, ragged clouds scudding across
A faded morning star and tiny sliver of a rising mauve moon.
But still a thick white fleece of brume remains in low-lying places,
Covering rice fields, creek beds and bayous.
Stands of cypress and live oak become air-plants,
Or they have learned to levitate.
Anything that nudges above the white placid pond
Seems to hover, graceful as swans.
Cows heading out to pasture
Float like a john boat glides
With gentle rocking motion.
It's hard to tell what is moving and what is still:
Everything sways in this pool of impermanence.
written Feb. 2010-,Feb. 2011, ,published in Houston Poetry Fest Anthology 2012