Ode to Morning Fog
I come out of my cabin to the world and feel the cool air surround my feet and tickle my cheeks. “Finally.” The word blows out of my mouth and drifts into your soft embrace. You cover everything from this spot I stand on to the miles away, obscuring the land just enough to make me feel dumbfounded. This is the date I’ve waited for.
On the lake, I see your body dance on the crystal-faceted water. Your hips bob up and down, wisps of hair flowing throughout the ribbons of wind. It smudges the reflection to the point that some might say you’ve destroyed the painted landscape nature created, but I know you’ve just enhanced it. It could be suggested that you are bringing a tendril of your cloudy flesh forward and slapping my face, choking my neck with a thick, long limb. But I know you’re not. You’ve wrapped your arm around my shoulder and given me a tender kiss.
As I watch the migration of art students, I listen to your family of birds chirp in melody. You are all related, correct? All of Earth has to be tied together, with humans sticking out like a twisted root, a growing cloud threatening to subdue your mist. I stand here at this morning, breathlessly trying to connect the two spheres: humanity and nature. Soon I’ll have no choice but to leave this scenery and fall into a seemingly endless and dead-like sleep of metropolitan rhythm. If only I’d wake up to be reborn as a blade of grass; that I might live until the next death and departure to touch that haze every morning.
Now the sun comes. It shows each and every outstanding element and particle you hold so gracefully. You are not separating, but slowly spreading your wonders to the other corners of the world. You, my dear friend, do this so others like me can write love poems and stories about your elegance. How kind of you, but I still want you to stay. As you exit to an unknown place, all I have left is dew. Are they tears for your departure? I am sure they are.
I can see some trees saying goodbye to you now, covered in the same vapor I was living in before. Some are now painted in full and bright color, contrasting against those who still hang onto your touch, like nature’s mixed-media. Is this the camping spot’s failure to comprehend to your leaving? I’m not sure how this makes sense; all of us have lived for days without your presence. I guess I’ll never be able to wash off your misty mark on my long list of memories.
Marina Ellis is a published and award winning student attending Miami Arts Charter School. She is in the tenth grade as a creative writing major, with an interest in poetry and journalism. She also enjoys studying psychology, neurology, and the art of tea brewing in her free time.