The fog was alive in November
The time when we remembered.
It was a Sunday night,
And the man in the eccentric clothes never walked his dog.
No one could have known,
That the temperature had been just right.
That the birds were softening their sight.
As the mist began to grow
Only one house had laughter within it.
Piercing the street with sounds only lovers could make.
The hypnotic dance had begun,
Echoing and enchanting not just one.
Two young moonflowers unfurled in the dim haze.
Trumpeting their petals, swaying only with each other.
Circulating was the thick cloud, as if searching for her mother.
And just then, consciousness became her.
Delighting was the chant of the silent whisperer.
The twirling new blossoms inhaled the ancient world.
The Earth was still somehow revolving.
But there was no proof,
The Bible should have written this.
The flowers were sighing
As the air started drying.
Only the smell of cinnamon remains in the empty field.
The field where significance once sat.