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Fog
This morning, the trees
have wreathed themselves
in a soft bridal veil.
They seem to whisper,
solemnly warning
that time has slipped back
a few centuries--
rumbling car engines
and Speed Limit 55 signs
are anachronisms.
Today, even the eager palm trees
bear a sphinx-like pose
of tarrying.
Somehow I yearn to forsake
my Escort lurching
back to the 21st Century
for standing. . .
waiting
with the trees. |
