Pixie Dust

Dear one, I got your note this morning, and that, along with the change in the weather, the rumblings and shadows flying about, made what had been a bleak day at least bearable.  I’ve been going down down down – you and poetry have kept me from crashing.  Aha, the storm has arrived. It is a sign of good things to come: all wind and choir.  I miss you even now but know I will miss you even more in times to come. When I see you next, it will be as if you and I, celestial beings of the first rank of the blue swan, are but mere mortals. We will fumble in our pockets for words that read like some crumbled message passed secretly beneath the nose of an oblivious teacher who drones on and on.  How to say what a gift you have been to me and yet wear this mortal garb? That I am still alive and not merely existing is your doing, dear one.  Let’s call it pixie dust.