Fog envelops house and yard
This morning in November,
Its center hard, impossible
To find. But its sound, as it were,
Is bound our way from an easterly
Direction where lake-plowing barges
Carry their charges of cement or
Coal or oil and in deep voices mourn
Their own dimmed hulking visibility.
In our family you are the POET LAUREATE! This is PERFECT IN MEANING, RHYME AND METER.
ReplyDeleteOutstanding!
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