Golden rose burning hazily
Through the mists that hide
The tule fog season begins like this
Before the cloud banks
And the land gets socked in for good
Mists eerily rising like ghosts
From a ghosted lake's old tomb
Creeping along with awakened limbs
Laying low and pressed down upon with inversion
Lite and airy as a dry cloud in the blue
Or heavy as words of faith held close
Soaking throughout to chilled bones
Not yet warmed eternally
Dewey on quick standing hairs
A coat of hazes droplet adorned
Sparkling in the moonlit aldered glade
Swishing and strutting through mosses
And hallowed paths of stone and waters
When rains are scattered haphazardly
The redwoods of mountains and coasts
Will drink the fog from the air
Grubstaking their claims
To whatever means necessary
At least they have their royalty
Their liquid larders in the droughts
Their ways to survive and stand alone
To look down upon the valley below
Where the tule fog beckons
And reflects the clear beaming moonlight
Back up towards the cloudless night sky
Filled with twinkling stars draped in the dark
Like crystal dewdrops wavering
On their quivering webs of light
Bending with the slighting breeze
And wait for the word
No comments:
Post a Comment