My love is stirring a softening

stay and listen

maroon opening

You can count the last leaves
on your ten 
o u t s t r e t c h e d fingers. 
A slight exaggeration, but that’s what you call 
[[ artistic license ]]
Anyway, most of them lay wet,
nestled in corners of the garden. 

The toes of the sun bleached green oxfords 
my mother keeps succulents in 
hang off the porches edge 
as though they want to dive 
into the tangle of vines beneath. 

If I recall correctly, 
I’m the one who put them there 
so maybe it says more about me 
than the shoes.  

What drew me             out here 
is the thick, gentle swath of fog 
filling the atmosphere, 
dampening sound, softening 
the edges of my breathing, 
welcoming the calm I often resist. 

Everything feels slower. 

There is nowhere to go 
in a fog like this. 
Sit. 
    ((( Listen )))
Stay 
a moment in its warmth. 

Distance is unrecognizable. 
Houses disappear into 
shapes 
and colors. 
Bare lunged trees appear to be, 
well, I don’t know 
how to describe the interplay
of watery atoms 
licking every inch of wood. 
But there it is again. 
Dissolving boundaries. 
           Fuzzy. 

My love tells me 
the valley is a bowl of mist this morning 
he’s only now stirring.

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