The mist closes around the path like a demon hovering near the living in the hope of spiriting one of them away. It wreathes false hope and mischief in a trail of ethereal wishes that chase away the living to warmth hearths and yet I linger here like an echo of a life that is almost spent in its purpose. I shiver in the mist like a leaf on the cold northern wind and now; how I wish it were once again the spring.