Oh that I were a Fog

The little yachts of St Malo venture out silently into the mists of the ocean.

Oh that I were a fog, a mist

Of this world, but, like smoke,

furled about more solid things,

and yet unhurt by their passing.

To caress the object of desire

and conjure up upon the cheek

A dew, a sentimental moisture,

And then,

in sunlight,

evaporate.

 

And yet if I were fog, then how could I feel?

How could I love?

 

Never to know the gentle touch,

meant for me and me alone,

Because I had some substance,

Some solidity for someone…somewhere.

So perhaps it is better to stand firm and let the waves crash upon you

And find it is something,

not to be,

mist.

In response to Writing 201: Fog