An Ode to Poe: My Soul’s Narration

The silvered trees from a distance stood like quiet sentinels in the fog.

It came so quickly this late fall morning, this foreboding, cruel to bones,

chilling spirit cracking fog.

I hated it because it came so quickly and so quietly without a warning.

But what could I expect, Being so close to the river and dawn had not yet

broken? I walked the jumbled path from the paved country road.

I liked this spot, normally.

Out here I was away from everything, even distant farmhouses and the

growing buzz of town. Lately it had seemed that this little town was

getting to be more like a city every day.

That was just a well-earned curse upon it.

Out here, I was free. I would come, and I would walk, and would always

refresh my soul. But today, my soul was wrapped in spirit chains in this

ghostly fog.

This fog, like a petulant specter, held everything in a near frozen bondage.

Icy fingers, unseen in the mist, were punishing the living: the trees, the

bushes, the wildlife here about, and even this poor human.

But still, there was an uneasy grace about this fog. It was unbidden and

unwelcome, but did not capture anything in its path out of purposeful

malice.

Unlike some ghosts, it had no specific hatred for the living. It simply

was.

As I labored closer, careful with my steps in the darkened underbrush

that spread across the frozen path, I could see the trees a bit more

clearly.

They were as cold as I was, but still bid me welcome even though they

dare not speak with their normal wind swept voice.

I stopped and came to realize that this fog was also doing me a kindness.

It may have been hiding the trail but it was also hiding me from the

world. With such hiddenness, I could still rest and heal my weary soul.

Even an icy fog can give a gift.