Through the Fog
Stand inside; step to the blinds;
pry two slats apart and
peer through the window.
It rolls in white, opaque,
curls around the edges
like a sea of skim milk
poured into a glass.
But open the door and
stride through: a trillion droplets,
strung together in gauzy cloud-wisps.
They dance and swirl, lift and sink,
wetly tease skin,
obscure themselves and what’s ahead
a droplet at a time.
This one comes late, the first hiccup in my NaPoWriMo process. My inability after a long work day to find my way to a poem in fact yielded the metaphor that infuses this poem.
I chose fog as a readily accessible representation of whatever keeps us from seeing our way. These blocks seem to appear as a single mass that descends, but in fact tend to be sum totals of everything, of a million actions and decisions and thoughts that combine and create the appearance of something much more daunting.
The repetition of "droplet" in the poem slips in to emphasize the parts that create the whole: tiny, even insignificant in themselves, but combining to make something bigger. One can certainly carry that notion to additional layers of meaning as well; if pressed, I will provide an erudite nod and claim to have intended each one of them.