~Marie Ponsot

The wind rises. The sea snarls in the fog
far from the attentive beaches of childhood --
no picnic, no striped chairs, no sand, no sun

Here even by day cliffs obstruct the sun;
moonlight miles out marks this abyss of fog,
I walk big-bellied, lost in motherhood,

hunched in a shell of coat, a blindered hood.
Alone a long time, I remember sun --
poor magic effort to undo the fog.

Fog hoods me. But the hood of fog is sun.

--Marie Ponsot