I am in love with the fog, I have known it for years,
and of another lover of fog, Carl Sandburg, who wrote a poem about it too,
it was the first poem that I ever learned by heart, and I chose it myself.
For as I child I loved to wander about in the fog,
on the way to school as we crossed the park in the mist,
and I’d glance back at the trail of footprints on the grass where we’d stepped.
I loved the fog at the beach although I may have gone that road alone,
but I knew that it would lift and I would have the best spot on the shore,
when the sun came out to warm me, I’d smile and tuck my sweater away.
Watching the fog roll in off the sea is the perfect ending of my day,
its quiet presence calms my mind so I can reflect and dream,
while snuggled in a fleece blanket, a glass of pinot noir in my hand.
But all those years in California I never knew about ice fog,
or had I seen the hoar frost that creates a pure white winter wonderland,
with its earthly cathedral of trees bending to pray under its weight.
When I take photos during winter of Anchorage in the fog,
with so little Arctic light they create their own special effect.