into mist
My father said
“clouds aren’t fluffy, they’re just very wet.
Like mist”
He could say that because he
had been to the top of a mountain,
all socked in.
I think in his head,
he still hasn’t come down.
*
I live in the land of mist;
step two feet farther
and I’ve lost you.
My landmarks obscured,
I hope I still know
the shifting path
beneath my feet.
I call out to the greyed-out
silhouette, voice muted.
It doesn’t turn back.
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