On a cold and foggy morning,
The man Jack makes his fern tapestries on the glass
Swirling leaves do a flamenco, carry my head with them.
And I wonder why I'm even awake.

I look out on a cold and foggy morning,
And some desire causes me to reach for this device,
to maybe write a symphony to this beautiful painting, framed so nicely by my window.
But there are no words really, just a vague feeling that there is something to say.