Unclear Condition

Morning is manic fog
milky, vanishing, slipping
under cereal, hugs,
reminders, lists,
all the things
we must bring

they are literal--Driving
the littlest human
to school and...
you know what?
they say...
that may be frost

just ponds of them
hanging out in the fields
with horses, ducks
the littlest human watches
my face cautiously
for a trace of panic

Fog flaps in the wind.
like blankets, begins to
put this year to bed. I
wonder where the sun will be
this time, next year--
and will we be here