Woke up to cloud cover, a bit of rain, all of it coming in from a big Pacific storm that has already done it's best to soak the Cascades, the California Coastal Range, the Sierra Nevadas and most of western Washington and Oregon. The tail end ended up here and is making it's way east. No doubt we could use it as it was a pretty mild winter. It felt more like spring from February on. It's been a happy sort of rain and it's all mighty fine seen through the eyes of a man who has lived a big chunk of his life in the shadows of the Olympic range.
So, there you were again, M, loud and clear in my dreams. I wish I had more details but somehow it was a good thing. Somewhere out there you made a connection again, made your way, alot like that storm, from the wilds of the Pacific Northwest to a quiet urban neighborhood, in the middle of the night. Somehow, too, it was good enough to wake me up, to take me out of the dream and back into reality. It was the strange, sideways kiss we shared, the hand holding, the tete-a-tete. It felt real, as dreams go, but yet, it was strange. I woke asking, who is that woman and why is she still bothering me? And yet, there we were.
I still seem to see you here and there and I have to wonder if the spirit, the essence of you, was carried my way by the same jet stream that moved those clouds over the mountains and into the valley. I have no idea how you are doing or what you are up to. In fact, thanks to these devices, to the everlasting nature of the internet, it's only here that you'll ever know that I thought of you. Think of these words like rain, rain that falls, runs it's course, and then, when you think of it as spent, trickles down through the soil and rock and various stratas and in the end finds itself in some deep, subterrainean pool. Think of these words, those thought and emotions as a sort of deep seated and far away kind of resource, joy, wildness, that can be pumped up, delivered to your emotional doorstep, years after your life has taken you places where you in your wildest dreams, would think to find me.
Think of those raindrops that coursing their way down your roof and into the gutters of your Wildcat Lake home as a sort of messenger to you, one that says, yes, your dreams are my dreams, that our time, once furtile and active and effervescent long ago, still lives, quietely, silently, deep in the recesses of our hearts, hope and dreams.
See you, Melissa, the next time the rain decides to fall, both here and there.
Love, your WHMB
So, there you were again, M, loud and clear in my dreams. I wish I had more details but somehow it was a good thing. Somewhere out there you made a connection again, made your way, alot like that storm, from the wilds of the Pacific Northwest to a quiet urban neighborhood, in the middle of the night. Somehow, too, it was good enough to wake me up, to take me out of the dream and back into reality. It was the strange, sideways kiss we shared, the hand holding, the tete-a-tete. It felt real, as dreams go, but yet, it was strange. I woke asking, who is that woman and why is she still bothering me? And yet, there we were.
I still seem to see you here and there and I have to wonder if the spirit, the essence of you, was carried my way by the same jet stream that moved those clouds over the mountains and into the valley. I have no idea how you are doing or what you are up to. In fact, thanks to these devices, to the everlasting nature of the internet, it's only here that you'll ever know that I thought of you. Think of these words like rain, rain that falls, runs it's course, and then, when you think of it as spent, trickles down through the soil and rock and various stratas and in the end finds itself in some deep, subterrainean pool. Think of these words, those thought and emotions as a sort of deep seated and far away kind of resource, joy, wildness, that can be pumped up, delivered to your emotional doorstep, years after your life has taken you places where you in your wildest dreams, would think to find me.
Think of those raindrops that coursing their way down your roof and into the gutters of your Wildcat Lake home as a sort of messenger to you, one that says, yes, your dreams are my dreams, that our time, once furtile and active and effervescent long ago, still lives, quietely, silently, deep in the recesses of our hearts, hope and dreams.
See you, Melissa, the next time the rain decides to fall, both here and there.
Love, your WHMB
