The Fog

A cold front came through –
winter dreary grays and
whites supplanted
sapphire deep blue skies.

I miss my red gold glowing fingers
curled and stretched in clean air;
I miss the red gold tree skins
and branches reaching always,
dusted with precarious
porcelain snow, sharp,
dry, and glistening.

I miss the weak winter sun
at noon day, unable to warm
but waxing hopeful;
I miss the clarity I always
walked in like a second skin.

Nothing is as sharp
as it used to be;
good bleeds bad now,
bitter molecules
bend themselves sweet;
and we look for
the least bad option
while today lasts.

But right and wrong
don’t change just because
light leaves our eyes.

And when it clears tonight we’ll know
and see the shiny plowshares wet
with fresh blood beneath a ghastly
moon – they’ve  got a taste for it now,
and a guilty peaceable hell
is more profitable than
learning honest war.

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