Creepy Fog

On the note of dawn, the leaves were struck by dew.
Not quite the smog, the song that bled in the air,
White fog  and pure, whining over Creepy Bog,
Her sombre waves, her motionless crust.
A sword for greens that would face the day,
The drips that fell from the thickness of morn,
Feeding life for tomorrow's dream, while
Sun and its owners plan to rankle who reside,
Proclaim itself the bog's only morning bride.
The oak in the southern marsh though would still smile,
For it has heard  the ballad of pollens flown,
Once when it first learned, then again every May.
True, life bred itself amid death's promise and trust,
As it's seeds of hope ply unnoticed in fog.
Chirps of the sparrows  amass in spring's annual fair.
In stealth of the summer, of course, pollens are few.