It was clear this morning the fog was on its way. The wind was blowing and gusting. Now, like a huge animal it pours over the hill and filters the light. Summer is back, and these silly shorts can go back in the drawer. Our invigorating weather is back.
I come across this poem on San Francisco fog.
STILL LIFE: SAN FRANCISCO
by Christian Wiman
The fog is the body it can't quite be
these evenings of early August,
coming together
and apart
in the peach tree's fist
of limbs, the ice plant's leaves,
center and remnant
everywhere it is.
How suddenly
it can happen, a room lose
solidity, the furniture permeable,
walls gone granular
as the light and nothing
intact enough to withstand
touch.
Hard to say
the moment
it's over, what's left,
what's lost, all of night
inside.
