I have lost the memory of my hidden landscape and with that has left much of my inspiration.  It seems a dull expansive desert of futile escape from expression and pain as all there is to do is shout at the open and sky and try to avoid stepping barefoot on venomous triggers. Nothing beckoning nor comforting nor even much conflicting.  Just the constant ache of having lost the ability of sweetening green hills with laughter, conjuring a vast city to play in at my toe’s edge, or closing my eyes to feel the warmth of white hot embers crackling and climbing to meet the stars.

Solitude is no longer that which I long for.  I close my eyes and and she her standing before me, sickle in hand, staring across a field of not so recently cut corn also not recently replanted. Despite what happened before when she walked to the lone tree and lay not so quiet under it’s towering canopy, that place is still hers.  “Go there.”, I tell her, “Find those birds camouflaged in the branches, hear their harmonies, feel the loft in thier wings.”  Close your eyes and remember how to dream.