. A very finely scattered sigh Of bashful mist would nigh attend My view and try---one wonders why--- To dare with utmost care to blend The reigning stateliness of trees on high. And yes, my half-closed eyes approved The quiet fill of unused space As nothing else at all had moved Or changed the forest’s tranquil pace, Its primal lace of branches---none reproved. Why did the saving salve of mist, So needed to appear there when The air the thirsty planet kissed, Just come then at the count of ten To validate the last eternal twist? The gentle moisture soaked the soul, Fast drying from exertion spent On urgent tasks, which was its role: Avoiding where the wayward went And striving steadfast toward the sacral goal. . . Leo Zoutewelle was born in 1935 in The Netherlands and was raised there until at age twenty he emigrated to the United States. After retiring in 2012 he has written an autobiography and two novels (unpublished).