FOG STEPS

Footsteps.

Fog steps.

Fog. Steps

in, leaving behind its tangible, melting

coat. Voices all muffled,

scuffle

amidst the crackling fireplaces.

Gently. And

outside,

the bloodless, dense limb wraps

the grey city of doll houses,;

squeezing it, caressing its

green pools of hazels and

birches; crumbling crusts of brown sticking out

like mocking tongues at the absence of

snow. And the steps are silent till someone,

inside,

sips, in the middle of their hot

supper, its frosty fingers sunk somewhere

in their white soup.