Your mother’s porch wraps around the house
on three sides, the veranda hangs over
the mountainside way up there
high above your little house below.

When the fog rolls in
it’s like frosted glass
enclosing her porch,
water drips from the arms
of chairs, circles down the legs
and across the floor.

When she sings on those days
there is no echo.
Her voice barely carries
beyond the wall of fog,
instead it drops down the slope,
running in rivulets
between stones and
rhododendron roots,
to pool at your front door.