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