The tulle fog shrouds my being.
It stomps around
and crushes the blushes
of sunny days.
It comes for a short visit and,
like poor relatives
stays the long nights of winter.
It weeps as it keeps away
the sun's warmth
and the feeding rains.
Depression and despair
mark my daily view.
Fires are lit
and loud parties fake ,
with false laughter,
the comfort of
the nearly forgotten fall.
Calendars become counting boards
as days are crossed
off with unhappy faces.
Hope is nearly forgotten and
spring is an eon away.
But, close the drapes and
put on some
jazz of the greats.
Let Frank Morgan,
the mellow,
tell of believing in spring
and its sunny freedom.
And Ellis can take you
to New Orleans
and the warmth
of summer nights.
Monk's Brilliant Corners
light the dankest day.
The cloudless saxophone
of Turrentine cuts
through the thickest gloom.
And if it is Sunday,
go with Kenny Barron
or Steve Kuhn to
“Live at the Mayberry.”
Jazz and some good soup
are all I need
to get to the sunny side
of the street.
Even the saddest blues
are better than fog,
so try a little
Bessie or Billie.
Don't let the fog
get you down.
Split pea soup and
a jazz riff light the corners
of fogged-in soul.