Mist

 Grace of fallen day, which lies upon mysteries untold,

Formidable, unmoving mountains behold.

Wet and cool lay the forest of green,

remaining hidden from the doctrines of man and its Pharisees.

Ever so, it climbs, unending into the sullen sky,

Hiding its secrets from dark eyes, which pry.

Rivers below twist on raged stony walls

 grinding ever patient, eclipsing unto cascading falls.

Oh, what glory this place hath to me bequeathed

As I in newfound spirit rise hence from the firma beneath.

So, speak now unto the rising cool mist

And feel my presence, as I unto eternal glory exist.

J. Allen Wilson © 2005

www.Jallenwilson.com