Mist
The haze lingers past morning’s first breath,
It cloaks the land for none to see,
Stealing it away from our memories.
These droplets drift slowly past our eyes,
In cahoots with the night they covet our sun.
The day grows old and weary,
Slowing to a crawl beneath me.
But I do not begrudge the mist its beauty,
Necessary and sober, moist in my pores.
I long for a midsummer’s afternoon.
