Prudent in Rage

Some days
a menacing fog
slithers across streets,
slides over curbs, and
slipping between ankles trips
the best of intentions.

This serpentine specter
may have a mind of its own,
or not, but this much is sure:
this malice born
of jealousy and greed,
of folly and pretension
strikes without mercy.

But its surreptitious aims
are laid bare by
poem, smile, deep, deep breath:
cool, clear water for scratched and scored throats –
a Spirit-borne hope, pregnant with
potency and vulnerability,
and prudent in rage.