February 14, 2007
I knew the storm was coming. But I did not know that today would be the final strike. The blood stains covered over, this was to be our last war cry. My words muffled beneath a blanket of snow, there would be no winning this one. (I retreat in silence and wish you well).
But there is love and spring will come in on his coattails. He is a gold thread pulling me through the long winter. He will come when the ground is no longer frozen and the milkweed seed is sewn. When Autumn comes, we will watch the down drift past these windows carried on a zephyr. And this day spent alone between a cry and a whisper, watching the snow-fall…will be long forgotten.