Wispy

Wispy as the morning mist that drifts
over the quiet meadow, a sigh of grey,
it curls and slips between the blades of grass,
a fleeting breath that kisses dawn’s first light.

Wispy thoughts, like feathered strands of hair,
tangle in the mind’s soft, wandering breeze,
they whisper secrets only shadows hear,
and fade as quickly as they came to be.

Wispy clouds, thin veils of cotton wool,
stretch across the sapphire dome above,
they trace the sun’s pale, tentative embrace,
then melt away into the evening’s hush.

O wispy grace, you teach us how to hold
the delicate, the transient, the near‑gone—
to cherish every fleeting, fragrant thread
that stitches life together, soft and thin.