Something like a phrase I don’t quite hear,
distorted by a phase shift, fog, or dream,
sidles up against my waiting thought –
could I be your  poem? but says no more

It’s gray, and has some drape or flounce of fabric,
holes that could be lace, or rags,
a shuffle and a flutter  –
if I’m still, maybe it will come closer

This could be the price of reading all day
yesterday, and even for some hours today
(though I did dredge up some discipline
to do some chores)

Sunset came anyway,
colors mirroring the fire,
even its shapes echoing the logs,
while fog crept up beneath it …
granting grace in giving me the sight
before it swiftly rolled off into night.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 23, 2022