The Mist

THE MIST
by Kurt Z

Fog, my almost-silent companion,
speaks in syllables of dripping dew.
It does not mourn the sun;
it simply waits, patient as the longest night.
On the slumbering hinge of winter solstice
the footless one drifts between the trees,
threads the alley on a breath of wind,
slides across the black mirror of the pond
to the far bank where voices gather.
I follow, drawn by half-heard words,
but the moment my boot touches the frost
the sentence scatters,
the current shifts,
and the fog folds its secret back into itself.
Some things only speak
when no one is close enough to listen.