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| Alban Mehmeti |
Fog Lands
before the morning sun crests the hill,
the valley lies shrouded in frosty fog,
an ancient land filled with the wonder
of changing leaves, deer nuzzling the
last summer clover. And it’s here in this
ethereal place that I silently sit on a log
inhaling the damp, crisp air, listening
to melodic birdsong, feeling as if I am
grafted from my grandpa’s bones, his hips,
his arms, his legs, his never-bending spine—
tending the same fields, staring at the same
tender green shoots of crops in the spring,
gathering up stalks of corn come autumn.
I smoke my pipe and wonder how long
It takes spiders to build their complex webs
and if they use the morning dew to make
their tea. Filled with neither sorrow nor regret,
I stretch my legs and stand just as the first
shards of amber light split the fog in two.
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| Arvilla Fee |
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