It is what it is.

Mountain Fog

The cold rise of September morn,
damp and bleak with joy unborn,
awakened not sweet Ollie’s bed,
but lingered with the breathless dawn
and left for dead a night foregone
with debts unpaid and words unsaid.

She woke at last to fog of mind
from sadness born of hopes aligned
with dreams alive but much impaired.
The mountains of her childhood days,
now cut and spoiled by tourist craze,
but hiding now from those who cared.

The mountain fog concealed her past
from copper eyes that saw at last
her broken dream of he and she
in mountain meadows’ quiet chill
and forests dark so deep and still
where love was kept for none to see.

The fog would lift and she would leave,
her thoughts a maze to interweave
with his and how it might have been
had she stayed those years ago
with he who named himself her beau—
the mountain fog alone therein.

Unspoken was that sad goodbye,
leaving him to wonder why
she was gone and he was not,
and time ran on
and she was gone
into the fog that time forgot.