A steaming sip of fragrant tea
rouses mornings wrapped in fog,
walking beside the plumed dog
across a plain of memories,
calling the names of old
acquaintances, some deceased,
somehow puts my heart at ease
and draws me back into the fold.
The dog tugs freely at his leash,
reminding me gently of his need,
so I slow and pay him heed,
and wear the streetlamp halo I’m beneath.
The fog is silver, cold, and mute,
while I am upright, mulling there
adrift inside the familiar where
I cannot recognize my own wet boots
through my vague cosseted history
that ebbs and flows in this swirling fog,
yet dances like a happy dog
against the leash of mystery.