Taking a walk on a foggy morning , I saw a dead pine tree on a hill.
|Wet Foggy Afternoon
Rising tendrils of mist touch
The stabbing husk of carbon.
They entwine till breezes of envy,
Push, and separate the pair.
Sparkling crystals of light wet
The protecting fur of moss.
They irrigate and seek to nurture,
Though the life within has gone.