Wrapt in the old miasmal mist,*
The bridges are hard to see.
Mountain towers, well below me
With snow tipped peaks abound.
Standing on high, the great expanse
Of city scape and holy mounts,
And options, options tantamount.
With roses none of note to find,
But those beneath blanket white,
As seeds and possibilities,
A resting world’s potentialities,
And a lowly pilgrim,
To wonder and seek,
With damp feet and reddened nose,
Enjoying the fragrant,
Chilly,
Air.
* First line care of and in reference to Mr. T.S. Eliot’s: The Hippopotamus