The mountain mist rolls into the valley
Covering the words of the poets
Who write all different kinds of travesties,
Calamities, destruction, or of love and friendship.
As the fog clears there is nothing but
A small china doll forgotten in the tall grass
This one simple thing can bring up
Even more elaborate images to the minds
Of those poets
They create and mold, changing the mountains to
Hair atop Earths head. The grass and
Dirt the skin, trees growths,
Ponds, streams, oceans are tears. Everything here
Makes ups her face, that of Mother Gaia,
Who allows us refuge here upon her.