The sun rose on fields snow blown and misted
ghostly swirls and dervishes. No fog this---
for fog simply lies. No---this was living as it arched and twisted,
fingering out to the road and reaching for me
like the shade of a beloved friend.
There was white inside, trying to seep out of pores,
I felt it strain trying to mesh and meld
with this sentient wraith fingers touching
joining and suddenly
I am the morning mist dancing in the crystal air.
- Lisa Shields
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