3WW: Gloom, Kneel, Transparent

In Spite of the Gloom

Oak leaves
as big as hands
shine as if they’d
been painted
with polyurethane,

Fog, transparent
enough to see through,
settles like kneeling
parishioners in the pews
of pine trees.

I sit
inside the yellow sun
of our camper
typing letters
into words,

linking words
into sentences,
then watch as they
braid themselves
into this poem.