In the grove where mist meets morning,

A tree stands in solitude, skeletal and bare,

Stripped of verdant life, bearing the mark of time

And under its archaic branches, once stood a doe.

An apparition in the mist,

Frozen in the canvas of memory,

Ethereal as a wisp of smoke, delicate as a sigh,

She etches herself into the parchment of the past,

Her story told in the silence of lost moments.

The tree, as ancient as the hills, whispers,

In the language of rustling leaves and creaking boughs,

Of a time when spring was young and the doe was life,

A vibrant testament to a past that no longer is.

Yet, a casual glance

Betrays no hint of her existence,

No traces of dainty steps in the undergrowth,

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Just the cold mist, wrapping the tree in a shroud of oblivion,

A veil between what was and what is.

And so, the watcher stands in the morning gloom,

Drawn into the spectre of an age once lived,

For in the quiet, in the damp, in the lingering scent of decay,

The doe exists, as a thought, a memory, a ripple in the heart.

In this fleeting moment,

He feels the pull of love,

The sight of the doe by the tree, veiled in the mists of dawn,

A vision imbued with the poignant truth of loss,

That to remember is to revive, if only in the mind.

He leaves the grove, yet carries it within,

A pocket of time, a fragment of the universe,

A tale of love, of loss,

Spun by a tree, mist, and a doe,

Inscribed in the soul, to be lost and found in a moment's glance.