**

Fog tumble on the scraper tops
a moistness lingers cold chill
charcoal and humming from the earliest light streams
I call this home
It is still a skeleton
waiting for my recognition to weave such warmth
A hollow hush carries the softness of all those words
difficult to say to reach to remember
Air stirs as much as my body will
the fog could crumble for days
without me needing it to, or not to
give.

**