Morning Mist
The mist rolls in like a mythical creature
It rolls and winds itself around, clinging,
like a choking vine clings to life.
It rides in softly, white, transparent,
Yet visible to the naked eye.
It creeps, it encases everything
Nothing, is left untouched in it's wake.
Visual one moment and the next gone.
10/30/12
Copyright © Phyllis Babcock | Year Posted 2012
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment