A White Mist Hovers by Dale Champlin
dazzling as a field of ghosts.When fog shrouds the farmland like this, I know winter can’t be far behind. In the distance, hillsides float—hazy ash to lavender, they menace.Low-lying clouds cover the pale morning a silken Victorian bridal veil. The cold penetrates,bone chilling and graved. May a bride be one of the ghosts,with her dove gray fitted bodice,leg-o-mutton sleeves—pin-tucked satin,crinoline corseted within an inch of lost breath. … Continue reading A White Mist Hovers by Dale Champlin
