Stories the Fog Holds

I stand inside clouds on a San Francisco hill

tonight, and marvel at sights unseen:  blurry

halos of street lamps, hints of intersections,

furry skyscraper shapes lining the Bay.

Fog rolls in like the crest of a wave before

it dissolves against the shore, engulfing me

in a grayed greeting from the ocean nearby.

I walk, and wonder at fog as metaphor,

its meaning to humans over time.

What is inside these grounded clouds? 

What is hidden to us?   Neither future

nor past is seen, every possibility just

out of reach, all history shrouded.


There is only now, only this moment

in this place. Without a visible world,

 does imagination grow wider…deeper?  


 The night air is still, dense with mystery,

as if the answers to all our questions are

here— sotto voce and sub rosa—-vague

whispers in mist I cannot understand.

Inside this fog I feel a multitude of stories,

told and untold, can almost hear wispy

voices from yesterday and tomorrow,

trying to share wisdom and cautionary

tales, folding softly in and out of time.


Cynthia J. Lee

LEE_Stories the Fog Holds

Stories the Fog Holds (24 x 24 (Oil, cold wax, pastels on wood panel)













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