I have not been more at peace
nor been closer to my true being
than our time here, in the wilds
of Alaska, surrounded by mountains,
glaciers, and each other.





The path through the
heavy pine and white fog
will become the destination
you choose.

2013-12-28-09-15-11

This reader suggested poem is “Fog” by Carl Sandburg.


The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.


Poem shared from the following resources.

http://carl-sandburg.com/fog.htm
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174299

If I pull back the thick fog
they still consume my eyes.

If I run into the water and let go,
let the waves push and pull me as

I fall toward the floor, they
consume my conscious thoughts

and what was empty and calm
becomes clouded and my next

actions are in conflict to
what I was taught and I am

left with the ancient memories,
a stain of my former being.

No words
No words

Sometimes word just get in the way of the image.  The image speaks everything we want to say and everything we are afraid to say, and everything we are unable to say.


A video by Twisted Root Studios of fog racing across Lake Superior where it is -20 with spring-like sun.

This poem was written as a response to the visual prompt at Northography.


scaledgm


We walked the shoreline
into the thick fog.

Guided by instincts
closed eyes and the

way feet touch the ground
we fell into the fog.

Days passed as we
felt safe, held by

something we did not
know or understood.

Questions fell away
after the fog lifted.