Morning Fog

I pressed my face onto the bosom of sloping hills,
my trailing sleeves
caressing deep enchanted valleys
and lulling willful silver streams.
I hung the curtains over morning vistas
of drying grass and darkly dreaming trees;
My friend, the farmer, slowly dragging a graying cloud
Along the newly-ploughed field,
Pays me his tribute, early riser,
Like me, he is the one who sees
the insignificant:
a squirrel
a stalk of wheat
and falling leaf.

I hush the noises of your busy highways
I hide the skid marks on their sides.
I envelope the rags of ruptured tires
And wrestle with your windshield wipes.
Half-beast, half-goddess,
uninvited,
unwelcome, hungry, and unloved
I cling to you like an abandoned mother
and like a mother
I will trust
your last embrace
and parting whisper
your final breath and final glance.

September 19, 2010