Fog Isn’t Logical

For We Write Poems prompt 202: Journal Poem
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Fog Isn’t Logical

Saw three separate hawks in quick succession
thought of myself and two sisters.

Bright red truck on frontage road
our maiden name in huge white letters
emblazoned on the side panel.

Omen?

At the right type of trigger, like a turtle,
I recede into my shell
where I assault myself with list of “what ifs”.

The issue with my siblings?
Do not want to go there.

So, instead, I attack myself,
how much time I waste writing poetry.

How did something good become so bad?

Have refused to consider old age process
denied it
gray area
rolling in like fog
off a North Wisconsin lake.

Changes all senses
makes them untrustworthy.

Bewildering.

Two sets of cousins…three sisters
each holding odd man out.

Saw my pain and knowing in her eyes.

Society itself makes it almost impossible
to continue in virtues it touts as most valuable.

Good ones, like sharing and compassion,
versus definitions like old, prostitute,
or schizophrenic healer.

Suddenly know it isn’t something defective in me.

For first time, feel genuine compassion
for strange cripple have been thought to be.

Have found treasure inside
worth hanging onto,
worth nurturing for rest of life
into oldest age.

Know that fog isn’t logical
it just is,
like aging.

Steps will appear as needed,
as I write poetry, scribble words,
find own definitions,

in this place where self sustains,
creates self
as each day
unfolds.

Elizabeth Crawford 3/4/14

Notes: This was the hard part of the Journal Poem prompt. Taking the past few days’ efforts, cutting and revising, seeing if they connect and how, reworking all of it into something that hopefully might be coherent. I’m satisfied, I think. Image is a photograph of the moon in early twilight. I liked the fog effect.