A drizzly morning up north
on the fourth Thursday in November
takes its time to clear.
The storytellers hide from other truths
in tulle veils:
wedding or funeral, birdcage or blusher.
We all do it. I’m so guilty,
my hands stained with bruise
colored ink expose another
underwater smoke screen.
I’ve looked it up before.
I remember the initial thick part,
the obscuring middle,
the final mist.
I’ll look it up again as I move closer
to the sea grasses and beg
more clouds to touch the ground.