Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Reaching for White by Lisa Shields

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.


2 comments:

  1. Very neat to find my piece in such august company!
    Cheers!

    ReplyDelete

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