December morning

Fog descended at daybreak upon the firs, draping them,
immaterial whitish veil, a mousseline scarf wraping the cone tops,
then almost instantly dissipating,
as the golden sunrays started their delicate watercolor painting,
slowly reavealing the details and contrasts of their majesties.
For a while though, the muslin scarf would come back, a vast vaporous curtain,
embracing the beloved trees, reluctant to give way,
O! Let me hold you once more!
And you could barely make out, as they melted with their morning lover,
the outlines of their majesties the firs,
like a sketch made by a hesitant hand with an unsharpened pencil,
And you could follow that hand and its movements as it went over the tree tops,
with each passage defining them a little more, by timid strokes.
Then the finger would shade off the lines again, over and over,
till it got bold enough to sharpen the edges, deepen the shadows,
so that their majesties could, at last,
make their tall presence known to their next lover, the solar disk,
A pale, powdered yellow light, yearning to stroke the fir trees
And melt the snow and dew with its warm breath.