King Day Morning Dense Low-Lying Fog
But I’ve come to accept
ridges, trees, creeks conspire to exhale
a visible stillness.
All night in the luminous world
I am, a moment at a time,
between cotton and pearl.
Morning thinned a space,
separated cloud from ground fog.
The present came to reach beyond
the front porch rail. Gray grass turned tan;
there were patches of henbit,
and chickweed so green January and all but
the Spring-flavored heel of February
might have given way.
It is impossible
for me to avoid the myths and fictions
of calendars and properties. The world
has no beauty, caprice, or cruelty
that I (we) don’t construct over it.
On this day set aside
to hold memories of a man and encourage
the living to continue his work,
when the fog lifted I saw a deer,
dead in the gray-brown grass
where my driveway enters our road.