Fog tiptoes softly over the hill,
Draped in a gown of silver chill.
It tastes like dew on a sleepy tongue,
And hums where spiderwebs are strung.
It curls through trees with feather-light feet,
Cool as a ghost and faintly sweet.
The sun gives chase with fingers of gold,
And fog grows shy, no longer bold.
One warm breath, one brightening glow—
And off it skips where lost dreams go.

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash