The Fog and I

In winter, I walked through the fog. On the way, I saw damp branches and a log, And dew on every leaf, petal, and thorn - On an empty road, on a Sunday morn. It was silent, empty all around, Not a soul could be found. No one was to be seen on that chilly morn; Silence and only I were there, all alone. It was calm within the faded view, Just then, past me, some butterflies flew. As I thought of a merry song, And the fog lifted as I walked along.