Good Weather Inside
I'm fond of interior fogs, thick mists
in which to disappear when the world
gets especially giddy, unambiguous,
and annoying. Invisible geese mutter
to themselves. A creek is to be heard
but not seen. The sun ceases to be
a celebrity. As Auden wrote, "Thank
you, fog." At other times, the good
weather inside invites. When muck
and slush of human interaction dispirits,
a walk in the mind's bright meadow beckons.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Thank You, Fog: Last Poems.