Words in the Fog
Alone I awake in the early Fall.
Winds whisper fables and folk tales tall.
The woodlands speak,
The waters sing,
And magic peaks behind mundane things.
Slumbering summer and restless winter,
Snapping and crackling of dying embers,
Chilled morns still half a dream.
Shifting light where not as it seems.
A waking hour, an enchanted hour,
Where one might catch glimpses
Of ghosts in the steam.
And songs below,
From east I come
And west I go.
Find me on those paths we know.