Winter Poem

I awoke this morning to find the world misty and dark: Lincoln was swathed in fog. As the sun rose behind the clouds I saw that the fog had layered the trees with frost, edging the dark bark with white. I spent the walk to the bus stop admiring the effect, and the bus ride trying to compose a haiku about it.

winter morning fog
in a world made soft and gray
black twigs fleshed in frost

I've never figured out why haiku is the only kind of poetry I write. My best guess is it is an intensely structured form, and I like that.