the fog that moves slowest,
is that, that hangs lowest,
on the bottom, in the long grasses,
as the sun rises and the day passes,

it
is said,

the fog lifts,
or it is breaking,
but it is taking a
break from holding
on to all things dear,

and all things near,
only made of droplets of water,
may as well be tears my daughter
has wept, that have clung to
hopes and dreams,
ripped away at the seams,
of her
atmosphere,

her world, her rock solid earth,
now a cold hard place, no hearth,
in the open,

no hope left in,
shelter out of the wind,
that causes her to sway,
rocked by every gust,
for we have grown too far away,
and it looked like all this time,

to this father
she went on to climb
her own path.
Up out of the fog.