Mist

Lady, with the lace,
Lady, with the shroud,
This Lady, who spun
And knit the cloud,

It was a lazy, unkempt morn,
And early as could be,
Upon five days of endless rain
She dried upon the sea.

Her days and days without the dawn
Were days without a sky,
All of this had gone for wash
And came back barely dry.

She'd watch the sunset,
Her sister vain
Gather all her trains,
Washed so clean of all the dye,
Naught but gray remains.

That pleased her, Lady,
That pleased her fine.
"For once!", she thought,
"Gowns plain like mine."