The fog descends
in the wee hours of dawn
like a sacred thing
moves slowly to the ground
the way mom would pour milk
from a half frozen can
in the newspaper plant
the reel has just started running
the words go so fast
they are the process of thought
reenacted on papers
millions and millions of information
precipitated to get to the right one
not all news are accurate as
we would love them to be
the fog plays with them before
the sun shines through it
what remains after are little
lovely jewels on leaves
and - our eye lashes
to help us weigh the day
by john tiong chunghoo
inspired by
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is beautiful, John. Your fog is playful. Sandburg's is silent. Both are lovely. Agnes