Fog by Rebekah Choat

I wrote this some months ago, out of my own experience of a very difficult time. I post it today in limited understanding and great sadness for Robin Williams.

 

image by Chris Choat

image by Chris Choat

The fog does not come pussy-footing
around a bend in the road.
It does not roll in ominously from the sea;
nor does it cascade in slow motion
down the mountain into my valley.

No.

The fog seeps up from the ground,
from this very earth greening beneath my feet.
It does not puddle about my knees,
nor swirl in terrifying eddies around me.

It simply rises to envelop me in a fine mist,
which I cannot help breathing,
cannot prevent my pores absorbing.

Climbing the tallest tree does not lift me above it.
Bathing in the river does not wash it away.
Walking doggedly on does not carry me beyond it.

Not yet.

 

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