What is the mountains were the fingertips of Love reaching up through the ground? Her fingers must have gotten too cold before breaking through the earthen blanket. Longing to reach us, to hold us in the hollows of embrace; she said, “Oh, I’ll trace shorelines, hugging them with seas of heaven’s tears. We mistook “laughter for tears and tears for laughter,” afraid to do more than skim the surface, sheltered in vessels of an opening too deep. Then I’ll greet them from the skies and trees, with colorful ensembles to sing and whistle of their loveliness. To remind. Invite. I’ll meet them at their bedroom window with the warmth of the rising sun. I’ll fly around their heads, giving life to sound. Then I’ll paint the black and blue. Spackled lights, mists and vapors and currents, an expressive medium of impermeance, castles and charicatures, they’ll want to catch every fleeting fluffy, temporal masterpiece; so I’ll roll out blankets of grasses to lie and exclaim and dream and kiss and be silent. Defiance to mirror their true selves, wholly beloved. Misunderstanding justifying isolation, refusal to face the reality of their be-ing…..I’ll keep singing and painting. I’ll keep reaching and crying.