Language of the Mist

            Laid out along the wetlands, mist shapes,
            a gauzy cloud to cover over all dreams
            that have ever been lost to this place. Who
            knows what secrets have sought shelter here
            among the reeds and mud traps and speechless herons? Who
            could say whether the sun ever lights here where
            nothing feels real without the soft protection
            of the mist, guarding every footprint, washing
            away every traveler with the dropping of dew
            and the draping of rain that's 
            always on the horizon, somehow, although
            one sees no horizon here, only vague mist shapes
            breathing up from the ground, speechless breaths,
            a cool smoke telling stories so far gone
            one has forgotten the language once spoken
            here—maybe if one lingers long enough,
            it reveals itself, the language
            of the mist—