Fog

I love fog. Its dew lightly lingers on my face as would the hand of a lover and the silver-grey light softly swaddles me in its silken embrace. Its softness is a memory of a favorite pair of old flannel pajamas from my childhood and its moisture rubs against me the same way my favorite blanket did: tenderly, quietly, safely. It muffles the staccato click-click of my high heels and accentuates the swish of my skirt as I glide through its vaporous tendrils.


Fog flirts with my vision, playfully showing as golden organza, giving hope that the sun is going to peek through at any moment, then twirling and heaving a heavy steel-grey woolen blanket over all I see – causing everything to shape shift for an instant.


Fog is a child darting in and out of the trees, one minute wrapping a chubby fist around a trunk and walking in measured circles, around and around and around…and the next minute, it’s playing peek-a-boo behind a fallen log.


Fog is a lullaby, a caress, a moment in which to breathe. It’s the rest between heartbeats.