Occasionally the sun shines too bright
And I must shield my eyes from it,
Lest I go blind. More often than not,
Clouds and ozone dim the sun’s glare
Just enough to allow me to see clearly.
Then there’s fog, which stunts visibility
To only the hand in front of my face.
I walk through this, hands and touch
Guiding me instead of eyes and sight.
I am immersed inside it. I breathe in the fog;
Particles of it build a home within my lungs.
The mist is cool against my skin. I am thankful.
This foggy journey is its own destination.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen