Weather is serious and San Francisco takes fog to its bosom. Nestled as a cat for some serious snoozing. Yet our fog (yes, it's personal) comes in a sweep and rarely stays through two meals. Our fog at its most lengthy is a sonnet. Never an epic. What's for dinner? Something warm & fragrant to sweep away the chill. Perhaps, roasted eggplant, tomatoes, Parmesan, garlic. Crustless.
Constellations 8/10
ReplyDeleteAll the smiles of the matinee idol hide his secret life
his hidden despair
Heat's on, cars pass, the sweep of morning
pea soup, fresh salads, white wine
the room contained them
cp 467