Fog

A December fog
Appears, like incense to anoint
Warmth up’n the cold
Foreboding of the year, and
Speaks into my mind
Genesis’s proclamation,
“God saw all He had made, and
It was very good,” and
From beneath the pond’s
Dark surface a collage
Of fallen leaves of oak and maple
Look up and agree, still
Fresh from autumn’s
Dispensation, having slipped
Free their bonds from the
Shoreline’s easel and into the
Bog of eternity.