I can’t find the right word and I don’t mean because I’m 80 and words hide out like gold in ore in a mine so I have to go digging for them and then three days later they pop up in the middle of some random conversation. No, I mean I need a word for the way the fog right now is lying atop trees in a narrow strip hanging between earth and sky, seeping into every crevice, licking each needle, branch after branch, saying, “This is the way I make love.”
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We have the same thing on the hill behind us all the time in fall/winter. Some people think it’s smoke. I like to think it’s the fog blanketing the tree tops!
Love this!
Wow. So many aspects and little tweeks in this poem. Aging, beauty of the earth, sensual and a picture of Oregon coastal foothills come to mind for me.