Early Morning Grace

Slowly spilling out over the edges of the lake,
sending out tendrils, feeling the ground,
feeling the air like a blind person might find
their way through an unfamiliar room,
the early morning fog comes forth.

The fog, enveloping the trees six or seven feet
above the ground leaves only the trunks
reaching up into the mist. Houses slowly fade
into obscurity, the people within gone, gone
from sight, gone from mind.

The descending moon has hardly any affect on
the fog as it fills in the cracks in the landscape,
the spaces between trees, blots out the remaining
stars and finally the moon itself until all is lost.
The world, shrouded in thick mist is but a memory.

A pale light comes from the East, as the Sun’s warmth
bleeds through the thick blanket covering the world.
Tree branches slowly appear, houses return. The fog,
not willing to leave transforms from an enveloping
cocoon into the white butterfly of hoarfrost.

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