Fog places her ghostly crown
Over the wetlands,
Dipping her royal fingers in the pond--
Causing ripples that disturb the subjects
On its glassy surface.
Fog cloaks the land
In an ethereal majesty,
Covering every twig and blade of grass
With drops of silver.
But when the sun arrives,
With geese trumpeting and wind bowing,
Fog, the most cunning mistress of all,
Merely gathers up her skirts,
And stalks out in pride,
Disappearing of her own accord
In broad daylight.
