The mist

The mist hangs low about the mountains. She feels like a presence - almost makes sense you were so close last night. That this place and the movement through it of beings like mist and the other comings and goings of high moon, Matariki star and bird migrations would herald each in their own way, a story.

Something spoken from the land to the humans living there - and that what we feel think and do is inextricably tied up in how this land and place is teaching her own lessons - teachings that will outlast my own life here.

I woke early morning with a stab to my heart - woke me up clear and straight - wondered if it was you again firing arrows at me from afar - or my own dear fleshly organ letting me know that he is going through the ringer. I don’t know. Today I live another day and this place looks for all the while that it was on fire last night - the cloud now like a remnant of a great burning - a great churning - a dark mountain razed to it’s core. Parts of me feel that way - the utter complexity of heart break and it’s continued longing - parts constellating around this place - my own interiority being mirrored by this winter landscape.

Thank you, I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you.