I opened the blinds to welcome the morning light. All I see is fog. Will it be a gloomy day? I think. Not because the overcast has taken over the skies, but its sight might make me despondent. I stroll towards the kitchen, put the kettle on, and turn the stove on to make some tea, ginger, tea leaves, sugar until it's all infused together to provide the creamy, delicious taste.
The sun tries to peek through the clouds, but it's so dense and wouldn't allow it. So instead of pushing, the sun retrieves its light to shed somewhere else. I submerge myself in my laptop for a couple of hours—still, no sight of the sun. I look through my window to see if the birds are outside, but none. Then, I bury myself in the kitchen for several hours to make savories and snacks. The fog is denser now but doesn't bother me anymore. I sit down, write a poem and leave it open, waiting for the next day when the sun breaks the dense fog and broadens its spectrum.
Misty morning fear the birds,
Hide in your nest, it says.
Birds ponder, they wait, no words,
Hide in my nest, they repeat.
A man walks by holding his dog on a leash,
Wrapped in a warm coat and a toque.
Birds flutter; perhaps it's better now,
A tiny bird peeks out, chirps, she wants to puke.
It's still foggy, she says,
Hide in my nest, she repeats.