Morning Fog

I open the window

every morning to a grey sky

dimpled with fog and high

clouds dribbling their dew on yellow

petals drifting like snow

on the windowsill. The chatter

of sparrows that batter

the ivy to shake off the cold

stirs the dried leaves I fold,

like memories, between pages

of my book. In stages

images come to mind of life

when it began – trifles:

tottering along a stone wall

to the park; scarlet Fall

afternoons eating kettle-corn

and evenings of forlorn,

barefoot running between maple

trees. I’m not capable

of holding down the images –

afraid of sacrilege

in smothering them with desperate

interpretations. But

though I cannot categorize

the memories by size

and geometry like petals

on a sill, they settle

in my mind as thickly as fog

outside and, like the fog,

soften all that lies before me.