Rain blossomed from the ether as desert flowers to quenched sand, appearing independent of both clouds and gravity. From whence it had come, I failed to fathom. It lingered, tarried long as misty-fog, as if the concept of making haste was quite alien to its mode of thought. For both sights and aromas it was a blank canvas I suppose, one that invited the imagination to bring its easel and stand, to awaken creativity from its pensive slumbers.
There was a gentleness to the early mist, as if by removing the precise edges of the land it invited night's dreamy bliss to linger.
In that day of gentle mist the blue river became new-lamb white.
The mist came as cocoon to the springtime wands and buds.
The mist danced upon the lake waters as if it were in some magical daydream.
And from the mist that hugged the earth, a comforting blanket that moved as serene water, there came bold purple petals of perfect form.
In the mist my anticipation grew to see the meadows and sky once more, for their bright hues to begin their daytime shine.