Fog: Work in Progress

trees emerge from still white nothing, become dead towers
white grey promises winter but there is the sense of magic
first standing smoke then a tree skeleton emerges
sentries wait for spring
out of vapor a street lamp takes shape
also waiting
for the sun to give it identity on the cinder block wall

nothing, then the city
quietly speaking of time and decay

I wait for red lights and get this down
out of the fog of blank paper come words
like trees, like street lamps
like a city that now speaks quietly of destination