Skin Of Fog
Fog furs the new-thawed ground,
felts brown husks in grey
as if winter had never been
A self-disguising spray
blurs the letters on my wall
as if there'd been no scarlet scrawl,
just a wound of air rough-covered with
a gypsy's laugh,
fog's soft uneasy peace
dead at the first sign of heat.
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Weekend Challenge: Flash Fiction 55 Plus
Kerry's plus this month is to add a color. Mine is the color of fog.
Image: The Pont de Courbevoie. 1886, Georges Seurat
Public domain via wikipaintings.org