A picture

I frequently check the shelves of the used book section at the Summerlin library. It is amazing what patience and persistence has brought to me as a reward . One of my great finds was a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. It cost me a dime and has given me some moments of pleasure. As I glanced through it today, I came across one of his more famous poems: Fog. Whether meant to be or not, It paints a metaphorical picture of how I experience cyclothymic-depression. The picture is neither good , bad nor to be judged by me or any other individual-----it simply is.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.




I have lived through many fogs.