by Fran Wilde
Edited by Julia Rios
Copyedited by Chelle Parker
When fog comes in
fingertips pressing the windows,
it takes the distance first,
that mountain we always said we’d climb,
the tug in the harbor with its low horn,
the bridge’s spun cables,
The fog removes our familiar horizons
with its pale hands
and keeps coming.
How do you fight fog?
It seeps beneath doorways, wraps your throat,
slipping into mouth and ears,
stealing sound until the ship’s horn becomes a sigh.
It comes for the houses, the doorknobs, the lights,
makes them soft, then holds them hidden.
But the tug knows to keep sounding,
the bridge plants its sturdy feet deep,
and you find your way out of doors
knowing the unseen mountain
is always there to climb.