Myra Schneider
Fog
This place is detached from everywhere else.
You watch the way the hide and seek sun drops
spots of blinding gold on the icy lake.
There are square warnings of danger. Seagulls
and geese are in huddles as if fearing
doomsday. Don’t stop to feed them – the whiteness
is growing from moment to moment, eating
deep into your body. The lake’s doubling
of tree lacery is so beautiful
you catch your breath but its duplicity
matches that in the everyday. Enter
the beckoning pale and dark of this world
and it will stop your heart. You can’t fly
so don’t flutter fingers or raise your arms
just keep moving. A playground looms – its slide
disappears half way down. The sun is now
white as the whitest moon.. Soon you will lose
both partner and path. There will be nothing.
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