Not quite fog this
thick and sodden
blanket that
envelops me.
The very temperature of
blood, it comforts me,
but leaves me
damp with maudlin
melancholy.
These climes are
made for
thought ful ness
and
quiet resolve,
for certainty.
The earth
is oozy underfoot.
Like cake
left out too long,
she has begun to
founder.
And yet,
she is alive with
feedlings,
emergent and
determined.
Their pace a pulse
to mark the beat
of our dark histories
passing.