sog descending

there’s a mist
from the west
blowing over the fence
in fine waves

abandoning the neighbor’s house

it drives
like the wind is behind it
though it’s still
outside

a dampened quiet

last night
I lay awake
to the sound of rain
in downpour

in droplets

like wet blows
struck upon the tin
by a tympanic hammer

with all asleep
struck specially
for my ear

it’s turned
to fog now

a sog
is closing in
taking the tall trees
out of my sight

though I know
they’re still there
.
.
.
.
I believe
they’re still
right
there

cling-wrap the day

there is nothing
else
to do

---

© Frank Prem, 2017

July 2017 Poem #26: collage – frost