Every Poet Needs a Poem About Fog

The fog sneaks in like a suitor
through morning's bedroom window,
slowly swirling its fingers to come near,
whispering softly so her father can't hear.
The fog throws a wedding veil over everything
with the kind of romance that filtered
the early days of cinema,
a film that moistens and blurs
the half-open eyes of the awakening city.
The fog wants to run away, elope,
and in morning's hesitation,
it's gone,
its only farewell
the wetness of a forehead kiss.
One to linger, but never settle,
the fog is a fleeting lover;
it can't take the heat.