Fog should crash and go boom
like the waves it roughrides into shore.
Or if it slowly-painfully slowly-rolls in,
it should moan or creak
or sit up suddenly and shriek.
It could sigh; for example, when it's nicely nestled
between two mountain peaks,
it could sigh.
(At any rate,it shouldn't just sit there!)
And when it comes sauntering into the streets of our town
(and, mind you, it doesn't miss the playgrounds),
Well, you'd think for sure it would hum or hiss
or maybe give a whistle.
It has never (praise be to God),
at least so far as I know,
it has nver ever
a woman's kitchen.
Oh you can talk all you want to
about how it's the nature of fog to be silent.
Snow is silent, too, even while falling.
But you can make it squeak under your boot,
and if it becomes bothersome,
you can shovel it out of your way.
Try doing that with fog.
You'd be all day.
*This poem was inspired by a woman I know only as Mrs. Joyce. She lives in Lemonfield, Oughterard, County Galway, Ireland. We met and talked on a day when Mrs. Joyce was uneasy because the fog was just sitting there.
© Carlene Sobrino Bonnivier