chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: fog

found poem: thinking

found poem: the immediate

found poem: water

found poem: THE FOG

found poem: bored

found poem: the hands

A sea…

FOGGY…

season-work

cotoneaster juniper fog
 
Unusual weather has settled upon us. After a run of perfect autumn days, fog crept in. First, just for a morning visit. Then morning and evening. Then just fog all fog.

As the maples blaze copper and red and the last of the green tomatoes ripen on the kitchen counter, fog glazes every surface with its speckled dampness. In the first days it seemed to hold warmth. But now it carries a deep chill, sends us searching for sweaters, resigns us to the tick and roar of the heater and infuses our conversations. Is summer, we sigh, really over?

And everywhere, spider webs. As if readying for Halloween, the slow, fat-bellied spiders of autumn have knitted up the garden, dropped their silken ropes from eaves and slung nets along fences. The morning’s lingering darkness reveals a pale patchwork of webs high on the telephone pole, caught in the street light’s wan pinkish glow.

The spiders instruct me with their industry.

postcard to morning*

crocheted jute

gray me for morning
roll me for dawn
cup up the dreaming
to drench these beginnings
to pour me a story
I haven’t imagined
to paddle the runnel
through fog to the light
where the grayness
is hardened to charcoal
and graphite and offered
on parchment to sketch
the gray feathers
of poem’s first flight

© j.i. kleinberg

*Since the August Poetry Postcard Fest ended, I’ve continued the practice of writing a postcard-size poem each morning — a first draft that may later be edited or combined into a more polished poem. This is today’s.

neighbors…

fogYesterday, they were out there, the two of them in their 80s, hunched over the plants that line the south side of their house. His plaid wool shirt a little too big now. Her scarf tied snug under her chin.

They pluck the last of the tomatoes, some still green, some wanly reddish, a few fully ripe, and when the plants are bare of fruit, he shovels them up, tosses them in the wheelbarrow, wheels them off somewhere. And she, bending deep from the waist, scoops soil back into the holes, digging and patting with her wrinkled fingers, repairing the bed for next year’s planting.

Today they’re gone, their house is gone, the trees, the grass, the carefully tended beds, the street between us, gone, in thick, enveloping fog.

memory…

firs in fog

Fog turns the trees into suggestions of themselves, faint and faded. In the still-dark of winter morning, a dampening of sound and shape and distance. Opening the blinds, I hope to see the doe and her large fawn who visited yesterday, browsing through the side garden, but see only the blurred fan of the streetlights, the dark pole, the rough silhouettes of shrubs.

Another blur: the memory of a large bandage on my father’s arm. I am perhaps three or four years old. My mother is deep-frying something at the stove when the oil catches fire. My father grabs a scrap of carpeting from the floor and throws it on top of the pan, smothering the fire. Then he picks up the pan, with its carpeting cover, and carries it over to the sink. But instead of leaving it to cool, he pulls off the carpet, and the flames, gulping the air, leap up his arm and burn him badly.

I don’t remember what happened next – whether they called the fire department or drove to the hospital. But after that my father had a big wrapping on his arm, which later became a lifelong scar. And in my mother’s telling of the story, my father’s unblemished heroism had a moral, and we had a new rule: we do not deep-fry.

And we never did again, and I never have, to this day.

Photo by Glynn Wilson

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