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By David Mendosa

Some say that fog is little more than just
A cloud without the strength to lift itself from land,
A mist too weak upon the air to stand,
A pernicious vapor that makes things rust.
Yet fog is whirls and swirls of rolls and gusts,
Something seen instead of grasped with the hand,
In silence it will contract or expand;
Call it an apparition if you must.

But by blurring the edges of the scene,
Limiting the stage upon which we play,
Fog gives us a sharper sense of here.
The focus is narrow, our senses keen,
A mood is created, it’s fair to say,
So that which is truly us may now appear.

Southern Oregon Magazine published this poem, which I wrote about 1981, in its April 1996 edition.

Last modified: April 23, 1999

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