Still Life
Give me a dawn stilled by mist,
a gray haze unrisen.
The shimmer of nocturnal lamps
held high.
A time for tree magic; a quite majesty,
all growth halted, transpiring not,
but held within a mystical abeyance.
A pause on the lip of light,
when woodland dreams
are hung from trailing moss,
or a dew drop drip,
from spider webs of translucency -
a fairytale time,
when a walker's warm breath
is the only path,
through the stillness of self.
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