With quiet mind I wonder at the art that makes, from quiet, words that we can say. Then, mind no longer quiet, I wonder how the tree grew, what made the house, and how the garden lives. And here is fog. Only the dactylic fog in particles, the rain in trochee drops, can cool my garden’s mind. The fog has a garden, planted high with ears of corn, edible without searching, and it is anywhere.
One moment it is summer, glasses / of white wine in our hands as we hover / around Beverly’s evening primrose bush / awaiting the promised 9:10 p. m. show.
