It was foggy in a hollow this morning.
And we all know fog is a thick cloud of tiny water droplets suspended in the atmosphere at or near the earth’s surface that obscures or restricts visibility.
But it’s also something that obscures and confuses a situation or someone’s thought processes.
And I don’t know what this means for me or you or us or them.
But above the fog hung the crescent moon, low and south east. And guiding. And beckoning.
And the Stairway to Heaven has never been denied in my car. And so many times has it come out of my smartphone and I’m stoned and I’m dancing to Jimmy Page’s guitar solo in a steamy shower.
And I left a warm bed on a cold morning because I had to do my homework, but also because I had a vision for a poem that I had to write– because words are my medium. It must have come to me in my vino-induced sleep. I woke up dizzy and tucked under a different blanket.
And I can’t paint or draw.
I was told I was the next chapter, but the pages keep quickly turning.
And our time here keeps flying. And you know sometimes words have two meanings, and all of our thoughts are misleading. And Robert Plant looks like him. Not the other way around. And that’s what is different now. From everything before. Perception and feeling.
And beneath laundry detergent and construction; love, to me, smells like sage and smudge and gasoline, skin, and the musk of man and earth.
Pheromones alone could make this life worth living.
I wonder about everything.
And I’m sorry I drink so much wine. And I’m sorry I think about sex and love and life all the time. I am.
He wished me clairvoyance. One of the cutest things I’ve ever seen in the dark.
And I can only hope and wait and be and do. And love fiercely with a mindful sensuality that I’ve only seen in one person.
And that crescent moon on a dresser in a foggy morning hollow.