The mist through the trees
White and pure, resting at the feet of oaks and ashes
Natures wild and peculiar hiding within its protective cover
Like a thousand spirits passing through sacred groves and moonlit glades
Waiting to disappear when the sunrise breaks

This entry was posted on Monday, May 28th, 2007 at 7:32 am and is filed under My Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.