November Fog

It’s odd how November can set in
like a heavy coat your father wore.
Grief hangs
over parking lots and in drive-thru lanes.
And in my friend’s sunken face,
I can see the cold coming.

The wet is already here
under our tennis shoes
hovering around us in the mist.
I watch headlights try
to cut through the fog
but they are only feeble candles.

But maybe that’s OK.

November fog is thick and vast
enough to hold my fears—
the fear of winter
and of old bones.

Summer never could comfort me
like this boundless cold cloud.
I’ve never seen God’s hands,
but all around—he’s touching me.


—Eric Nelson