Here's something I wrote at two in the morning, mid-April 1992, when
I was living in Beltsville, MD.
I like the fog
I like the fog a lot
It softens the lights
The fog caresses me as I walk through it.
It does not grab and cling coarsely,
Like the muggy heat of Washington summers,
But gently and tenderly caresses me with every step.
I welcome those caresses, the feel of the fog's
Moist fingers in my hair,
Across my cheecks, my forehead,
I do not see fog often enough.
Perhaps I should move to Oregon, or London,
Where it seems to spend more of its time.
I like the fog,
It's a good place to rest.
It is gentle on my eyes,
and it is a stage.
Who needs the bright lights?
The spot, the floods?
Give me fog,
And I shall work magic.