Beginning with a line by Ellen Watson*

I am the age of my daughter who still loves fog,
but it is sun on the wooden porch I love,
the way heat pushes through my skirt into skin.
It is the rough bark of the apple tree scratching
my calf as I climb to a higher branch I love,
evening-damp grass as I roll down a hill,
cocoa hot enough to singe my tongue.

Fog is a curtain I cannot feel.

Wilda Morris

The first line is from the poem, “Glen Cove, 1957,” by Ellen Watson. “Fog” was first published by
The Avocet.