And then I saw it.
Mackbeth’s trees walking up to me-
Front rows marching their resolute, dark green leaves, stone-carved branches
Those just a row behind already covered in a sheer
Milk enveloping the heads of the third and fourth row.
The horizon of a small church tower, a few pipes and the eyes of a stadium
And the fields, at last, painted now with a brush of one dimension.
The fog, your face is how I see them.
Had I not seen the rows of lessening definition, the steam from the pipes slowly drifting into you, the blades of the morning sun cutting through you
Would I know your name?
Like a sculpture which embodies the sculptor
whom I don’t know until I see the stone.
Like stigma which wouldn’t enter
was it not for the smirks and threats by those who live in fear, against those who live.
Like cry of a growing babe when she falls
learning from the faces of adults to burst, instead of brush off at the surprise of it all.
You, fog, I see your slow magnificent presence
Through the things you seep into.