Gosh, smiddy, it's nice to have a request for poetry!
"The Black Oaks" describes where I live in the California Sierra foothills; we are, for the most part, above the fog and below the snow. Nevertheless, we do get both occasionally. I hated the fog on the coast where I grew up. Now, I welcome it.
Thanks again.
Frank aka Coco
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I WATCH THE BLACK OAKS OF MY WOOD SWAY gently against an early morning expanse that is an uncharacteristic gray, but a gray illumined by a softer and gentler summer's sun.
What yesterday had been the regal, glossy green leaves of the stately sentinels are today, rather, a buffed sage foliage that I do not recall ever having viewed before. Somehow the look, the feel, the mood that overtake me right now transport me back to the foggy coast of my youth. At that particular time of my life I was not so taken with the unrelenting cool of a Pacific summer.
Now, in this land of perpetual sun whose increasing rise in temperature is, in a frightening way, relentless, this sudden and uncommon wafting of damp and fresh upon my body is healing.
