The snow was gently falling this morning, but warmer temperatures lay just over the southern horizon, if- they can convince the current headwinds their unwitting accomplice in delivering radiating sunrays to help melt our seasonal snowflakes. Come to think of it, spring was always your favorite season. I can vividly recall how much you wanted to simply go out and shovel all that white snowy blanket away and wake your sleepy garden of dormant plants. It was almost as if you had a green-shaded soul to match your innate green thumb. How you managed to till and plant all those seedlings, sprouted plants, and evergreens all on your own, still amazes me, even though I shouldn’t be.

You know, I believe there are times when the nature of this mountain also misses you. That ethereal energy we both recognized when we first started living here. Now and then as I sit, even in the wintery mix out on the front approach steps where we’ve chatted for hours and now, I hear in a tender and elusive like cry inside the sounds of winds that meander from the lower riversides, up through the meadows and rocky plateaus just below our ridge line where snowfall is always the deepest of all. I firmly believe this mountain adopted us both, in its own peculiar fashion. And when we lost you, a part of ourselves was lost with you too. I’ve come to believe special places like this mountain can get just as lonely as you or I.   

The setting of today’s sun will be crashing just yonder that westerly summit fold soon, but I’ve lost my palette to sit and watch that amberoid disappear all alone anymore. Besides, I’ve still got a few chores to finish up and your kitchen to tidy up after my late supper. Oh, how I miss hearing your voice more than ever, especially while chatting on steps about nothing more important than our shared moments.   

Poet of the Light © 2023/After letters collection~

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