I wake to the lackluster fog of an early November morning,
the dreariness creeping over the dead leaves scattered in the yard,
a blanket of quiet sound.
I hear it swirl up to my window, a silent whisper of longing,
before I look out into the opaque dawn and yawn.
The fog is kept at bay by brick and wood and pane,
yet still it clouds my head and body with heaviness
as it holds me in the cradle of fluff and down
among pillows and blankets and the warm body next to mine.
Keep the day at bay I say.
Let me stay wrapped in this dream forever.
Whatsoever Things 