Enveloped, first draft       9/28/17

 

The fog began as something deadly,

The kind that tentacles reach out from,

The kind a person could disappear into.

This is the dense air that Morning Glories thrive in-

Diffused light shields fragility,

They happily shy away from their vibrancy.

 

On the highway we crawled our way forward,

willingly driving toward blank white walls

walls as permanent and as solid

as change.

 

Long past the time the sun should have risen

nothing looked different-

just gauze and hiding,

everywhere but right here was a secret.

 

The mist, like dry autumn leaves or ocean water,

vortexed in the wake of any moving thing.

 

The sun did begin its vanquishing spell as it climbed higher into the sky

The mist on the peaks also rose

stretching onto its tipy toes.

Pulling away from the ground, now a moth eaten thing

it hovered, two, three, four tractor trailer heights above our heads

disappearing like some cloud rapture.

It the valley it clung, thin and weak like age.

 

Then it began acrobatics

funneling tunnels that rose up inclines

glowing orbs hovering at the end

layered bands of lace across the horizon

painting the sky in a desperate attempt to be granted stay.

The far hills in sage,

the low swath of sky pale,

and above our heads it caught the sun’s fire,

muting it to strawberry lemonade.

 

Now the day has awoken in earnest.

Strong rays pierce through strangled wisps.

In the distance are the only remnants.

They leech the colors from the mountains.