Last Mists of Spring

Rising mist through the trees

Tendrils all afloat

Carry two buckets up from the moat

And let us climb aboard this fantastical

breeze.

Who is the wizard in the trees?

Who speaketh of the first mists of spring?

And of their magical powers

Enchanting the senses ever more

With a tingling oxymoron: hot vaporous canopy

Blanketing the forest floor like the setting

Of a joyful vigil.

For on this day these mists will rise

And drift sweetly away

Yielding summer freshness,

And you, my darling, a delicate visage

through the trees,

Sweetness and light.

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