Morning Fog at the Academy Cemetery

The morning fog rolls in
Like the soft back of a cat
Rolls to the touch of a hand.
It comes in close to the ground
Riding each gentle breath of air,
Pouring itself around tired, ancient tombstones
That reach for the sky in an empty gesture.
It weeps into the black oak trees
That live without shadow or bird songs
In the dark morning of winter.
The rusted iron gates are barely visible.
The porch light of a distant farmhouse
Is a useless, yellow haze.
And the hills beyond have vanished.
It seems as if the fog stretches
For hundreds of miles without a break.
But I can walk this fog for hours,
Bending to the slow motion of morning
And give myself to the whole gray day.

-- Paul D., Adult