(Re-edited)

Just below the surface, and when I look in to the landscape of myself, sometimes I find a spring that seems to burble up from the bottom of a lost and lonely valley.

Here, within this realm it is moonlit grey, though perhaps it's just before the break of day upon a winter's morning, and perhaps the dawn is upon it's way.

I glance about; there are rocks that bare from the side of the hill with moss and lichens adorning them, and between them grow the occasional fern and other little plants whose names I do not know, and there is always the velvety moss that seems so wonderfully blanketed everywhere.

The trees stand tall upon the hillsides, they are not in leaf, but at rest it seems, and I haven’t seen a bird here, but I have heard them gently singing perhaps as if to welcome the dawn again to this lost little valley in the very essence of my being.

The ever spring water trickles quite aimlessly after it has risen, until whisperingly it becomes a little narrow stream.

Here, there are small fish that dart about in the cold water, seeking food, seeking safety, and seeking to welcome another spring, to mate, and to pass on their precious lives once more.

Perhaps I await as they, and perhaps it is spring within her winter sisters realm, dreaming amidst the mists that gather at the far end of the valley that I have glimpsed.

Yet I do not call out to her, as that I feel may be crass in some way.

Sometimes though, when I am not even here, I long most willingly to embrace her, to nurture and to be nurtured, and then as hand within a hand for us to follow the little stream in a new found togetherness, and to travel around the rivers many meanders through a summer's realm to where the river broadens, and all becomes autumnal.

Here golden leaves escort us on the river as we flow to meet the sea, where we are within a winter’s realm again, and where we may leave our final footprints upon the strangeness of snow along the beach as a gift to the changing of the ever tides.