Autumn Fog ... Weeping

The fog sits low in the trees -

heavy sagging under her weight –

weeping, her tears cold and wet

in the early morning chill

as we step out, the dog and I,

a ritual pulling us out to walk

into the morning mist this day,

a late Autumn day begun in fog,

low in the trees, weeping, cold and wet;

and whom does she weep for but the changing season,

Autumn’s cooling of Summer into Winter snow,

the days grown short, darkness falling early

and rising late, us, too, warm under covers pulled tight,

a quilted warmth holding us in bed a little longer,

fearful of rising in the morning’s dark and cold,

yet getting up, venturing out, a ritual, the dog and I;

but who will weep for her, low in the trees, weeping herself,

seeking what little warmth there is

rising up from an earth turning colder, darker,

seeking, perhaps, herself, some comfort,

her great tears falling, weeping for us,

and the season changing, bound here,

seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking ourselves.