The Fog of Life

My cabin sits high upon the mountainside. The rivers valley below both broad and wide; An arboreal mist shrouds the land below; As cold air rolls in, the white canopy grows; Filling the valley up ever so slowly; Climbing the mountainside thick wet foliage; Mother Nature’s own scheme for hiding the pines; Acting in accordance with old Father Time; The old goat tethered to a hundred-year oak; Standing somewhere a mere ten feet below me; His bell clanging, yet not one hair can I see; Hidden in thick clouds as if he were cloaked; I stretched out my arms, my hands I could see; I look down at the ground, my feet still with me; Fog can’t erase the deeds of my hands and feet; Nothing can hide me from my own knows and toes.