Sun salutations don't make the sun emerge

Enya in bladderwrack with her stick

An island obscuring fog
drapes mist over every
surface, beading window
panes dog's belly pine needles
and the arms of my sweater
when I step on the porch to watch
an acrobatic crow draw lines in air.
Water boiled:: tea steeped:: dog fed.
Permutations of downward facing dog
(enhanced with growling): sun
salutations don't make the sun emerge.
Head stand; I land; still this damp
shroud.

Fog snared spiderweb

Notes:

The daily not-quite sonnet: 13x I'm calling it, my private little experiment with writing poems that are just 13 lines long.  It's strange, this practice of writing a poem of a defined length. Each poem becomes like a puzzle, a box of a defined size into which you must fit odd heterogeneous items so that when you're done the box has become a drawer full of interesting oddities and meaningful content.

Each length exacts its own pressure and creates its own surprises. What happens when you cheat a sonnet by one line? In my case--I think--the poem wakes up, becomes stranger, more colloquial. Is this my imagination, or is there really so much difference between one line count and another? I will have to continue with my experiment to see.  Are 13 lines really more light-hearted than 14? Is it habit or a subtle interruption of habit that makes me think so?

All photos taken today in West Quoddy in the fog. 

Leaf captured fog

How cold my knees are/ heartwreck/ a love poem

Early morning. Pink light at the window. The cat, curled on the pillow beside me wakes when I do, gently taps my face with her paw.  The furnace cycles on again. I must get up and put wood on the fire. The walls of the house creak with cold.

I draw the curtains, let in the sun, build up the fire, sweep ash and wood fragments into the boiler, turn up the thermostats. Time for coffee. An eagle, carried on an air current, dashes across the sky.

How lovely the light is, how cold my knees are. How age or winter undoes me, piercing my bones. It wrecks my heart to wake here without you.