I see her in a dream, on a hot summer night giving me unquiet and restless visions.
I see her on the high plains, foothills before great and young mountains, the Columbine flowers blooming.
Spring still here, the seasons not yet disintegrated into fire, the sun not yet our enemy.
She is in mourner's white, and her hair cut short, and she is watching something I cannot see.
I call her name. I call her name into the wind, and only the bobbing Columbine flowers answer me.
The wildflowers growing bright and beautiful where blood was shed, and they grow so thick and proud here.
I walk towards her, the warmth of spring no comfort now, death always in the midst of life, a baby birds carcass picked clean by ants in the tall grass.
She turns to me, sorrowful and distant, a piece of her soul tied to pain and blood, even as she now rejoices in heaven.
The piece of our souls clinging to our waking world, the places of pain and joy, even as we slip from life.
I stand before her, and our eyes meet, and she smiles tenderly.
I reach out to touch her face.
I wake up in tears
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