Tracing the outline of her face,
from a photograph...
It's a cloudy day
in the mind of memory.
The curve of a forehead
is lost in thick air.
Sharpened mountain peak
or a rolling hill, gentle;
I cannot tell.
It seems morning fog
will forever be here
and that the corners of
a photograph are still curling,
the wetness of vapor.
I still lay in the grass
awaiting the time of day
the sun will rise,
and the fog will clear.
The first two lines were given as a writing prompt in my class...I cannot change them.
