Praise the fog that bathes the earth,
balm for blistered land,
drink for redwoods,
relief for all who labor.
From a distance you look like eiderdown.
Close up you are but wisp and gauze,
yet you sweeten each breath
a sun-wearied creature draws.
Long days and sultry nights
leach all reason
from my sleep-starved
flesh-enmeshed spirit
drunk on light and heat
then hungover
and with me a whole hemisphere
besotted and whirling.
Here at the edge of the sea
the fog will float in soon
and for all of us eventually
the soft quilt of darkness
but today and always
the cave of your heart
is lit with God-fire.
Feel it flow
through your veins.
Burn —
as only you know how.
Inspired by Linda Serrato’s poem “On This Morning” in Sacred Stone, Sacred Water: Women Writers & Artists Encounter Ireland.
The Kingdom of Enough 