vlita

Like the swamp that holds its secrets low
under layer and layer of mystery and natural history,
killer quicksands and balance lost in bitter-smelling bogs,
the brown beaver worrying a jagged line on a log
is the hidden truth (the proof of kidnapped life),
that lies in the Cherokee word for Fog.

The still winter ground crested by a crust of ice.
From september to march chill days
are founded on a hard premise of frost.
We question our own decisions
wishing for just a ghost of a chance
for revision...am I this cold when I hide
what I am feeling beneath heavy layers of cold?

The warm air is aflame with sunlight
reflecting off the diamond drops of dew
on new green leaves, small bits of green
lost in the gray of a new-born spring day.
Am I as thick as this bank of low lying clouds when
I refuse to see the bad in myself, or the good in you?

Maybe one day long ago it came in on the little feet
of cats, but now the fog just quickens into a deadly white
while it thickens against the hell of hail and sleet.
The storm cannot even drive it away....
and I am buried in this intangible avalanche
of mist and I am at the fulcrum of this balance
of warm air and cold ground,
and what the fog reveals is surprising, like being
kissed on the cheek by a whisper off the lips of a ghost.
This is what the fog reveals...
This is the love unfound by us, but it ended
up being what we depended on the most.

4.4.2011