Mountain Mist

The mist clings to me as I walk,
dotting my skin with gems of cold.
To left and right
there should be peaks and plunging valleys,
but I see nothing that I cannot touch.
Upon this open mountainside
the fog has made for me a private space,
a shrine of grass and soil and stones,
things barely noticed in the sun’s harsh stare.
There is a peace, an intimacy
but this is still a cage: my eyes
are trapped within a wall of white.
At least my ears are free: I shout my name
and seconds later, hear it back.
My voice reveals the spires of rock
submerged with me inside this pool of cloud.

First published on Herb Port of Poets