Sonnets |
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Oregon Fog by Gideon O. Burton Another thing, not smoke at all, not dry
Nor ashy, something close to water yet Another thing, not clouds that nestle, set In lumpy languor on the hillsides, high. It is a brooding, patient thing, a sigh These swaying redwoods breathe, a kind of wet Companion, fingers dangling where they shed A lacquer for the leaves. It doesn't fly Away, but lingers in the early, late, Then dissipates in silence as the trees Emerge, ungraying, colored, thick with juice, The grasses, ferns grown glassy in the great Baptizing morning rite. The paws release, The captive ground uncaptived, fragrant, loosed. Feel free to copy or distribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgement of authorship |