She
A vision draped in mist and morning dew.
Her soft veil drifts in hues of gray and blue.
With grace, she danced beneath the pale blue skies.
She plays with winds that whispers through her veil,
A fleeting spirit, light on feet so fair.
Embraces the peaks with shadows in the air.
At dusk, she rested, as the daylight pale.
Through fog she casts, the world in silence lay,
Children moving like ghosts through morning’s mist.
On paths of life, their steps by fear dismissed.
Their laughter stilled, their games now put away.
She weeps, her mantle gathered close once more,
The wind, her friend, will soon her soul restore.
original written by great grandma Nina Folsom Moss
"She" (1965) by Nina Folsom Moss
I saw her lift her head from the lake, then, gathering her dripping mantle about her, hesitated a moment before floating upward to play with the wind.
Gracefully swaying, with outstretched arms, more dancing than running, she lifted first one foot and then the other to open the folds of her gray white chiffon shroud into exquisite swirls and eddies. At close of day she rested in the foothills with towering peaks for a background. As I slept, she played her usual prank of spreading a canopy about my home.
To-day - I can not see my neighbors home, though it be not far away. Through the dimness, a yellow blur of light guides the children to the entry of their home; I miss the shaking of the rug by the mother and the antics and frolic of the family. There is a strange quietness about their coming and going.
Today - spectral images step along the path to school. In twos and threes, with parka hoods drawn close about their faces, they pause at the crossing of the roads and peer into the mist for the arming lights of approaching cars.
With glistening eyes they hurry to reach the safety point beyond. This day they do not stop to test the depth of a pool of water or to build a snow man. They trudge unhesitatingly toward their destination.
To-day - I stand at the garden gate unnerving the beauty of the opalescent frost on shrub and tree. A car approaches, cautiously. Where am I? the driver shouts and I learn that he has missed, by tow miles, the proper turn at the junction of the road. As I watch him drive away. I reflect on the ways of man and the many souls who are confused at the junction of the path of life. Because of the fog which they have created they become lost at the junction. They are late for their appointment with opportunity because they have so willed it.
To-day - The heavens drip. It is "She" weeping as she gathers her mantle. She knows that the same wind with which she so recently played will blow her over the mountain and far away.
