an apology

Warmup: an apology 

all these years I’ve misunderstood
how fog is made,
 fog and her long skirts,

her thread and loom.   How each length

is shuttled through and the foot

or the arms are sliding the pattern

of the valley, the entire muscle

of it, how the heat of the work

is the fog.  I’ve misplaced somewhere

that it has to be warm somehow

to conjure it, the land or the water

nearby, to make visible a breathing thing .

In yesterday’s storm, I walked back

and forth over the same path.
I hovered.
There was no pattern to it.

I dropped almost everything

I picked up the first time

and had to go back to it again.  My tools

are too small I said to myself

but I kept on keeping on.  They are

what I settled the job for. 

One shovel, and it’s about the span

of my hips. 

It was snow rain freeze. 

It covered everything.

It was down my neck

and on my head when I pulled

the hood over me.  I was too

warm inside my suit.

I thought: it’s 16 degrees.

It’s a cold heat after coming through

and I had better do with a hat

with gloves

with snow pants that once belonged

to my son.  Cleaning like this is

like an ancient at her loom

how some are held in the teeth
on the herd paths of llamas

and gravity pulls the strings.

In the valley there is fog.  I’ve seen it

in pictures.  In the driveway here

--fog--

it covers all my clearing away

work.  It can defeat my eyes

if I let it.  Yes, I’ve misunderstood

and I’m sorry.  I need to walk in it more

often.  But it’s cold and the footpath

is froze.  I need to strap my teeth

to my shoes to tell this.