Fog: a poem by Rachel Dacus

image by rihaij, on Pixabay, modified

Fog

This morning the treetops emerge

from the marine layer that rolls in at night,

bringing a scent of the sea inland,

misting us as one. I step outside

with my morning cup

on a deck high above the street,

as the light brightens between fingers of a pine,

its curved green needles parting the haze.

At first the sun is tentative, dancing

forward and back, the way I hesitate

to disperse my confining memories,

those imprints of ruin that keep me bound,

though I want to ghost them away.

But the whiteness thins and I see

the pine tree’s form, staying still

in the morning’s transformations

as they reveal true shapes.

The sun breaks through,

gilding us all in loveliness.

Each window across the way

holds the Self looking out,

waving and calling, Look in the mirror.

I do and see a day that’s free of blur,

overspilling in golden love,

and I can only rise into that transparency

of happiness by giving it away.

______________________________

Rachel Dacus has published seven novels and four poetry collections, with recent work in Eclectica, Aeolian Harp, Amethyst Review, and in the anthologies Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry

of California and Nūr Mélange: A Ghazal Anthology. She lives in the San Francisco Bay

Area with her architect husband and a Silky Terrier. She writes fiction and volunteers for local causes. More at www.racheldacus.net.

(April 2026 issue)