The Clearing of a Mist

A day and a night and a day of mist
clears at a night’s sun fall.
A quiet wind whines overhead,
the city begins to resurface.
Damp roads appear to be lacquered,
cars still wet as any wave.
Glossy windows reflect the glow
of a sullen moon, of lamp posts,
like riddled fireflies
throughout a silent dew pond.
The melting mist reveals the worth
of metropolitan streets, only briefly forgotten;
but now silvered in droplets,
plastering a shinning city.

While Boiling an Egg

In harrowing fears the wind works against us.
Branches build within the confines of our mind,
the roots of our soul;
the harrowing fears of our very heart.
Snow pelts windows and withers trees
waltzing along the sodden pasture line
forgetting the profit and loss.
Here is no soil but only water,
no water but soil in a bogged road
where pebbles drift from mountains
who too once were the pith of a stone.
The desolate, the heavy earth,
the faded sky is loved by those
who are gladdened by simple beaten grey,
a hoary now with a lurking mist.
Not today, I've learned to understand
the love of summer storm,
but it were worthless to tell her so.