something about the way
the fog hugs the valley
like a downy blanket,
softly caressing the curves
of a body, pale and firm
laying so still that
you can barely see
the movement of breath
in the pink and purple
hazy light of a young day
tall grasses entangled
like the hair of a sleeping child
seen in the eyes
of a romantic heart that yearns
to feel that same fog
brush cool and warm simultaneously
across a face
that’s neither young nor old
but ageless in heart and hope
and wishes to remain so.

-Previously Published


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