By night, I watch you sleep and wonder what you dream. I hold you inside me by day. Sometimes I listen to you from far away and know you hold me inside you. Even if you won't say it.
I feel my body, heavy, as if I'd myself painted the two-hundred-highway-miles between us. I must be on your mind despite the task at hand. Little wooden feet. I like the idea. Can't you hear them, clicking and clacking around... playing their brass bowls like flutes? The task at hand.
The storm is moving in. I wonder when the rain will start to fall. We are nearing the time of Resurrection, when I move across boulders to be with you; when you hold the snow off to be with me. Let's call Uncle Weather and see what Father Time and Mother Nature have to say about my Ascension.
See you at the top.