The fog rolled over the hills
Painting the mountains as the clouds never would
Delicate fingers of frost
On the proud fringes of trees
On the hoary, brittle grass
Covering, delicately, the brown of a snowless winter.

Every morning, when the sun rises
It comes up in a burst of glory
Turning my city into a valley of diamonds
As the fog slinks back to the shadowy vales
To wait for the night,
When it will cover, again, ever solid surface
With the jewels of Winter's generous king.