Through the mist and fog
tiresome, troublesome bog.
Aged girl sits, cleans mist from her brow.
Frown lines crease, “isn’t this something.”
Drip, drip the dew swirls through air.
Trees hidden, hills made to disappear.
Air fills lungs, a sigh all that’s audible.
“Well, isn’t this something,” she says.
Collects her belongs and moves along-
trusting that what she can’t see is still in fact there.
Faith in the innate her dominant trait.
Submitted as part of Jingle’s Thursday Poets Rally Week 38