My days are of fire and

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    My days are of fire and mist,
    mist and fire.
    Dreams drift in,
    blue over these green hills as
    wisps of wanton wishes bud in the trees.
    Day barely breaks
    in mauve murmurings
    from the east.

    I turn from ashes of the night
    and walk into day,
    exhaling dreams,
    tilting my face, flower-like,
    for dewdrops or tears
    gathering on my face.

    My days are of fire and mist
    mist and fire.
    Flames and shadows dance in a ring at my feet.
    and I am only half warm
    with mists across my shoulders
    like a cold, damp cloak.
    Smoke slips over these dark hills
    across a sometimes moon.

    I am held here,
    to a flame I dare not touch
    until I am a shadow
    or a mist.

    Raynette Eitel

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