The Mist

In the morning mist, the world does breathe, A shrouded specter, a tender sheath, Quiet and soft, it blankets the earth, In its embrace, the dawn takes birth.

The trees stand ghostly, their limbs entwined, As shadows paint the edges of the blind, Where time seems to pause, and whispers dwell, Past and present blend, a mystical spell.

Step softly now, where the dreams unfold, In the mist, the stories left untold, A realm where the wild ones dance and play, A dance where the heart finds its way.

• Robert Penn Warren