Deborah Guzzi

Clouds hang low, muffling the maple-covered mountainside.
Fog rises from a saturated earth, weakly wetting a soft breeze.
Mist maintains the connection between earth and eternity.

Within the gloom, where barren treetops scrape the sky, twigs green.
Hope springs with random bits of color to the opened mortal eye.
Soon, soon, a brighter palette will appear, light will live.

A gray day lies upon the wane and weary eye of morn.
Soon, wind-born blossoms wipe the cinders from the pale eye of sol,
melting the chill of fog and mist, warming the home of man.