slipping into the fog

partially

awake, i slip into the fog,

the rain

of December.

how deep

the woods are this

early

in the day.

too cold, too wet,

for many.

i take the path

less

traveled this time,

into

the mud and bramble,

down

to where

the thick stream

rolls.

to where the trees

have been

engraved by young

lovers,

who are now

suddenly old.