The Storm 

If I’ve read it once, I’ve read in one hundred times, one thousand. Carl Sandburg’s poem Fog is light, beautiful, tangible…brilliant.


The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Soon, my area of the world will be swallowed in snow, lots of snow. Thanks to that looming snow, and a bit of fog, I penned this today.

Image result for storm


The storm comes
on dog feet,

over hills,
over mountain crags,
spitting, wet,
thunder cracking
in its lungs.


6 thoughts on “The Storm 

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