The snow came.
Later, when the air warmed, it melted the snow, turning it into a thick mist that blanketed the landscape. Breathing in the saturated air I noticed how the journey of thoughts can be very different on a foggy day. Not sad, merely reflective.
by Carl Sandburg
Open the door now.
Go roll up the collar of your coat
To walk in the changing scarf of mist.
Tell your sins here to the pearl fog
And know for once a deepening night
Strange as the half-meanings
Alurk in a wise woman’s mousey eyes.
Yes, tell your sins
And know how careless a pearl fog is
Of the laws you have broken.
The House of Dust: Part 01: 08
by Conrad Aiken
The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city,
Over the pale grey tumbled towers,—
And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.
Along damp sinuous streets it crawls,
Curls like a dream among the motionless trees
And seems to freeze.
The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms,
Whirls over sleeping faces,
Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps;
And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . .
And one from his high window, looking down,
Peers at the cloud-white town,
And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . .
It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain
Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam.
All photographs © Copyright of Lea Valle. All rights reserved.