Phantom fog

Maymist8

 

We start the day in fog that clings so wet

And coats the trees in grey of mud made air.

Not bitter cold this solstice time and yet,

We start the day in fog that clings so wet.

With thoughts of sunlight and regret,

That winter gnaws the bones and strips them bare,

We start the day—this fog that clings so wet

Coats phantom trees in grey of mud made air.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

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