City: Fog at Dawn

A rose sfumato
softens the edges
of downtown.
The founder over-
sees the sunrise
from his perch
on the monolithic
plinth. His head
like yours is bent
over the results
of his efforts.
Does he frown,
like you, at what
has emerged?

Or does he peek
slyly from under
the tops of his lids
at the fog
veiling this city,
once his, now ours
and the dawn’s.

City: Fog at Dawn

Does he wonder,
as I do, as you may,
whether the mist
and the soft pink
light of dawn
will gentle this
harsh world
we have forged
in our own image?