My Lady of the Mist

It is nighttime.  Before me lies a great pond.  The still water is like a sheet of pure obsidian.  It is so very hard to see.  The mist, it blankets the pond.  It blankets me.  The loamy earth makes no sound as I step, feeling delightful upon my bare feet.

Something draws me.  Again I step.  The mist, it hides me, protects me, becomes part of me, and I of it.  I feel safe now.  Slowly, I wave a hand through the fog.  I delight at the contrails swirling about my fingers.

Something is there now.  I strain to see.  Far off,  something is there, someone, a figure standing,  standing upon the water.  Curious, I step.  I look down, not wanting to step into the pond, and yet I am standing atop the water.  I do not falter.  I move on.  I must.

It is her, the woman from my dreams, her hair the color of honey under the foggy moon.  It flows about her face,  blown by ethereal currents.  Yet, the air is as still as the water.  Oh, her hair.

I move closer now.  I see her gossamer gown, the curves of her body a dark silhouette within.  My longing grows.  Closer.  I see her now.  Her face is perfect, angelic.  I reach for her cheek  but stop.  Such a sight, a thing so perfect,  I dare not touch.  But she reaches out her hands, and I take them.

Face to face, we dance through the mist, atop the glassy water, spinning, twirling.  In perfect step she leads me, and then I her.  Delighting, I waltz, lost in the haze of my dream, with my lady, with my lady of the mist.