Mist
A gentle fog has settled down,
To pause, and wait, and sit around.
The softest gray is still and silent,
Only sound is muffled, quiet.
But whispering wind starts to billow and blow,
Whisking away the slowly swirling mist,
And clouds now part for the whistling flow,
The fog has vanished, swishing, hiss.
Copyright © Kiana Dobre | Year Posted 2023
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