What Fog Thinks of the Moon
Affection wanders at dawn along
sidewalk, returns with leaves
from heaven. Mint greens of earlier
mornings. Water in the stem means
drink. Means spindle oblivious
to red thread sunk to street. I rarely
look at your face. What fog thinks
of the moon. We have to say: yes,
there is sun not always shining.
We have to remind ourselves.
Author: James Croal Jackson
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