The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I love the writer and poet Carl Sandburg. His was the first work I ever performed on stage, at about 7 or 8 years of age, in Columbia, SC as part of a children’s theater camp. We performed scenes from the book of American Fairy Tales, Rootabaga Stories.
He was earnest, hopeful, populist and poetic.
His work has been a part of my life since childhood, and we read from his poetry (from Honey and Salt) at our wedding.
It was foggy today. I thought of him.