At 9 a.m. the sun’s a silver plate
suspended in the fog. The air is chill
and laden with the saturated weight
of hanging water. Distillations fill
the spaces in between the blocks and bricks
that pave the way I walk, and leafless trees
uphold with lacy capillary sticks
an atmosphere too thick to make a breeze.

The silver sun will change its hue to gold,
chameleon-like, as soon as fog is gone.
The sky will gray to blue; the air will cold
to warm. I’ll set commuting heels upon
the streets of San Francisco as the light
paints shadows on a day born solid white.