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.