In the fog, maidenhair moss hangs from an ancient oak,

water drips into your hair. You sense the expansive

view across the ocean to another country,

San Juan, Orcas and Mount Baker,

but you see nothing inside this cloud,

a plane drones, a boat murmurs

and a foghorn moans.


Mist beads on your cheeks and eyes,

close and intimate as a lover

who evaporates


and reappears

a mountain soaring above low clouds

strong and solid, to hold you

close and true.