Still, She Sings

Everything is different. The once plush, green leaves of spring now sacrifice themselves to a change, spraying the world with color. The warm summer breeze has become the crisp air of an autumn morn, with winter soon to come.

The clouds now blanketing the oft-blue Colorado sky send warning that things are changing. The browning hue of my mountain oasis reminds me that soon the White Veil will come, and the ice will return. The mule deer scurrying for final bites of summer food know it too, as nature begins its preparation for the brutality of winter.

That stark contrast of our summer joy, that wondrous playground of warmth, of Sun, of joyous outdoor games, that give way to ways of winter, the cold, the snow, the morning ice.  Still there is joy there, albeit covered in layers meant to keep us warm.

Another summer gone, another winter coming. Soon another year will pass, and with it the promise of time. We will all be another moment closer to our end, even as some of us live in the eternity of a moment born with a morning chill made good in the warmth of blanket, or a lover, or a memory of either.

So much will be lost, but she will still be singing.

I pray on the coldest night I will feel her warmth. I hope that on my driest days she will quench my thirst. I hope that when there is nothing but the barren branches of the trees that line my trail, I will see her smile and remember that spring will soon be here.

Because when the cold winds blow, and the snow piles upon my sacred ground, she will be singing. Her melody will melt the ice, her notes will show me purpose. A lyric will be born that unites us, our bodies dancing as shadows to some holy fire in which no winter’s breath survives.

We will brave the cold together just to feel the warmth. We will cast snow aside just to unite our lips. We will challenge the frosty day as two made one, as lovers united in a common cause.

That embrace. That sweet, holy embrace. That kiss. That breath of life between us. The sweat that drips from our skin that says to the snowy night, “love cannot be chilled.” That moment when time is frozen in the warmth of all that is. Forever.

A man with nothing knows his value. A man with everything forgets himself. A man who can truly hear her sing, forgets himself in everything he values. Even in the empty spaces I can hear her sing. Even in the lonely moments I can hear that melody. Even in the demand of life that patience be a virtue, her song rings through my soul. Forever, I guess, but for now, absolutely.

Come, open and waiting, and hurry. The first note has been struck, and we have not a second left to spare.


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