"Just when the catepillar
thought the world was over,
it became a butterfly."
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The fog rolls in and surrounds our town.
It hangs in spots, and then opens wide.
No rhyme or reason,
no respect for any one season.
It comes when itís warm;
And hangs even closer, on days that are cold.
At night it may rise higher
and hang like a ceiling above,
Reflecting city lights,
so night has lost its' darkness
I think this must be like
what they call White Nights.
The fog makes me feel nostalgic,
but I canít tell you why.
Itís like being wrapped in a blanket
and held to the breast of our earth.
Itís like the breath of a mother
upon her child on a cold morn,
Or like a sauna so close and steamy,
without the heat.
The fog confuses me
as I struggle to explain just how I feel -
What it is about the fog
that holds that melancholy appeal?
I donít know how to tell,
except that I have always loved it so.
Today as it rolls in, Iíll just grab my coat,
bundle up for a walk,
Off I go, amongst the swirls and curls
of the vapors called fog.
Copyright (c) 2004 J D COSS . All rights reserved.
"There was a child went forth every day, and the first object he looked upon and recieved with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became... And that object became part of him for the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years." Walt Whitman
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