In the mists
Fog, like a shroud, hangs over the valley,
muting the morning's voice, soaking the ground.
Droplets cannonball, trying to rally,
base jump the downspouts, raise echoing sounds.
Scarce is heard but a chorus of crickets.
Runoffs form rivulets, quiet joined mirth.
Does skip breakfast, stay tucked in the thickets,
waiting for sunshine, enjoying warm earth.
Silent, it slips like ghosts through the forest,
leaving no trace but a sheen on the bark.
Seemingly endless, in the aorist,
thwarting dawn's progress, prolonging the dark.
Alone, a sorrowed lover seeking trysts,
a sodden, tear-soaked spirit in the mists…
For the 2020 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Written on 9/10/2022
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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