Morning Mist
A hush falls soft on waking land,
Where silver threads through silence stand,
The trees half-dream in veils of white,
Bathed in the breath of fading night.
The sun, a whisper on the hill,
Spills golden ink, yet all is still.
The world in pause, a sacred hush—
The mist moves slow, the day won't rush.
Each blade of grass wears nature's lace,
Each droplet holds the sky’s embrace.
The crows call low, their wings outspread,
Through morning's gauze, both seen and led.
The earth exhales its ghostly sigh,
And writes a verse across the sky.
In that brief spell, all time seems kissed—
By silence, light, and morning mist.
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