A Cold is Borne Upon the Mist

A cold is borne upon the mist,
my fingers, nose, and lips it kissed.
Each drop reflects a tiny moon, too small
for me to see, yet collectively,
they all take on a moonish hue.

The airborne dew begins to dance
as I intrude without a glance.
A lamp, diffused and haloed, glows
to guide the errant drops reposed
back to their partners.