Rising

© T. B. Jackson

The sun displays her orange yellow hues across the morning sky

As if on queue the fog begins to rise over the serenely quiet river

Swirling upwards, enveloping me with her stifling beauty

Until all I can feel, all I can taste, is her sweet refreshing touch

Soothing and clearing my innermost thoughts and desires

And then, once more on queue, begins to disperse

Ever so slowly, at first,

Quickening until all that’s left is a memory of something that was,

But is no more.