My foggy breath crawls up the inside of my throat And lunges past my teeth With a happy turbulence. Spreading over the crest of the hill, It graces the treeline with joy And disappears deep into the forest.
Stags wander through it's remains, In an absolute nobility And earthly humility, As they catch the sound of icy grass beneath my boots Bounding far, like children who Imagine creepy-crawlers biting at their feet.
My appearance scatters the sleepy branches Of somber firs, And new-born scotch; Leaving them to dance and flirt With the timeless frost, suspended in air Lifted and churned by my foggy breath.
Resting against the mossy logs Just beyond the treeline, I watch brittle flakes fall And blanket a gently robust field with crystal That comes to a final rest and conclusion. My day has gone to waste.