Where the Mist Plays

By Vikki

I cannot say I've walked this path before,

Nor can I see a path from long ago;

If ever was this route pursued, it was

In days long past; so long ago I think

They must have been in leather soles prepared

By shoe-smiths down the long cobblestone paths

In the century of America's birth.

And so the moss springs light under my feet;

This path now long forgotten, overgrown,

Stands eerie in the early morning light.

 The sun casts forth her rays into the stillness;

And are reflected a thousand thousand times

By the mist that plays, floating above

The dirt and dead brown leaves of yester-year

By only inches.  It swirls around my feet

And ankles like a puppy begging to be

Held, and yet when I reach down to pick

It up, it eddies in my hands and falls

Away, melting so much like ice – dry ice.

A hundred thousand prisms made by God.

Separated light upon the dark tree stumps,

A rainbow in the barest light that weeps

For seasons bright.  Not now, when winter

Takes its icy hold and chills me while

I walk.  The springy moss alone is green.

All else lays dead – well, dormant, but so sad

And wet, all brown and drooped.  Only the trees

Stand tall and firm, glad to be rid of leaves

While sleeping – softly sleeping, back rigid

'gainst winter winds that howl and scream.

Yet now, the wind is barred – the air is still.

The mist no longer dances 'round my feet—

Its happy rainbow crumbled in the dust

By the proud sun.  She claims the day her own;

No cloud remains to argue.  She glows bright at

My back, casting my shadow long upon

The leaves that lay in wait; covered in dew.

They hide from her fair face the seeds of spring.

And though she took my playmate, those cool mists

Of early morn, I know I can't resent her;

Her light brings colored spring again in time.