In the early dawn, the fog does creep,
A silent veil where secrets sleep,
With tendrils soft, it wraps the earth,
In this hushed world, a gentle rebirth.

The trees stand still, in ghostly shrouds,
While whispers float like fleeting clouds,
Each step is cushioned, muffled, light,
As shadows merge with morning’s light.

The fog, a dream, elusive, fair,
Dissolves away with morning’s glare,
Yet in its wake, a memory stays,
Of misty hours and shadowed ways.

So let us cherish fog’s embrace,
This transient, soft, and tender space,
For in its folds, we find the grace,
Of fleeting moments, time’s own lace.