Reaching for the White
The sun rose on fields
snow blown and misted
ghostly swirls and dervishes.
No fog this—
for fog simply lies.
No—this was living
as it arched and twisted,
fingering out to the road
and reaching for me
like the shade of a beloved friend.
There was white inside,
trying to seep out of pores,
I felt it strain
trying to mesh and meld
with this sentient wraith
fingers touching
joining
and suddenly
I am the morning mist
dancing in the crystal air.
©2006, Lisa Shields
