Dear Friend of my Heart,
It is the most delightful occurrence, in the most daringly playful of my opinions, when a verse meets a verse, reherding the dispersed curse of Magus… but the worse is yet to drag us to a starry night’s brilliance… waiting for “that one blooming beauty to fall open for you and me”… at the count of thee… one… two… wild and three, both me and you and you and me… rendered free by poetry…
There once, not too long ago at all, lived a tale, of forgotten mysteries, of intimacies and intricacies, and the cunning beauty of a guileless snail. Attempts so frail to summon the words that could appropriately a queen’s new mystery hail, spiral downwards like a falling feather, only to be caught in a mid-air swooping loop made by a bird who nests on the top of an ancient tree… so, again… at the count of three… one… two… wild and three, both me and you and you and me… are rendered free…
This afternoon, as shadows of various intensities danced beside each other, and inside each other… there was another, the shadow of the nib of my pen, called melancholy. Inspired by a shadow-inference of the shadow of the breeze, followed by a hearty sneeze(I have a cold), I wrote thusly upon the paper, my words written twice, once in blue and once in the shadow of blue: From reading words on paper I have moved to reading shadows on leaves.
Let the readers of shadows be grateful to light….
eager to her from you,