ON AND ON WE walked, somnolently, as if through a long entrance to a dream.

Virtue led the way.

She floated like a shadow before me.

Our footfalls became muffled as we shuffled along in the deepening snow.

One sensed the stony steeples teetering in the clouds above us; bluebirds perched like angels on their tippy-top points.

I found my thoughts drifting off and away to all the languages of the world, and to all the truths. I wondered about all the people in America – both the young and the old – the Mormons and gentiles and the Indians, too – with all of their thirsts and hungers. Then I imagined every poem ever written and joined end on end to make one eternal and joyous elegy for all the creatures through all the ages. I almost believed I could feel that poem living inside of me now. Like Delight’s cooing voice. Like Turtle Dove’s song. Like the Prophet’s dreams. Like the Word of Words.

These were nonsense thoughts, to be sure.

Fluttering butterflies.

Wildflowers.

Shooting stars.

All but impossible to gather.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…

But such were my weary musings.

Until at last we reached a tiny stream.

*****

I knew this stream. From somewhere. In a sweeter time. I had been here before; of this I was certain. This was the stream that fed all the others. Surely this was the source of the seas.

It tumbled over the boulders, threading a wet black vein along its icy ripples. Pillows of snow mounded along its banks. Yellow and purple flowers slept there beneath their blanket of cold, waiting for the brief mountain springtide.

Virtue took me up this stream, delivering me to the pool.

“Here we are,” she said.

“Yes.”

The little pond was wide and calm and hemmed with snow-covered boulders. Snowflakes the size of small birds slanted into its black surface.

Virtue lifted the blanket roll from my shoulder and brushed it free of snow. She smiled at me. “I will go over there now,” she said, lifting her chin. “You wait here.”

I nodded dumbly, only half comprehending her words.

She stepped away into the fog.

I tipped my face to the sky. Snowflakes washed my cheeks. They dashed against my chest.

The world itself is the poem, I thought. And we are but its couplets.

I stood like that for a time, in something resembling an attitude of prayer.

“How do I look?” asked Virtue.

When I lowered my gaze, I was greatly pleased to see Virtue standing before me. The snowflakes bejeweled her blond hair. Her blue eyes flashed with happiness. She wore the wedding dress – as pure and white as the surrounding snow.

“You are truly beautiful.”

This pleased her. She bowed her head shyly, holding an arm out to the side and admiring its fabric and cut.

I thought of my mother, of her gentle ways.

But then Virtue turned solemn and gazed once more into my face. “What will you do?” she asked.

“Oh,” I answered. “I do not rightly know.” I looked at my hands. “But I have heard it said that the islands of the southern seas are a nice corner of the earth to visit. They are rumored to speak a language down there, one made up entirely of soft sounds.” I considered this. “Perhaps I will find passage on a boat and work my way across the ocean.” I nodded at this idea, and sheepishly grinned. “It is surely a boyish notion,” I said, “and probably not reasonable in this terrestrial sphere, but a land without the hard edge of consonants seems to me like a veritable paradise.”

She smiled at my innocence. And then she stepped forward. She took my hand, placing a small stone in my palm, and then closing my fingers over its smoothness. She laid her fingers on my chest, over my tattoo. “Thank you, Rain,” she said, “for delivering me.”

A sizeable knot had formed in my throat right then, and I could but nod.

And then she turned away.

She walked to the edge of the pool.

She stepped into the water.

She waded out into its middle.

While I watched without moving.

She sank away into the black water, her white dress fading into the depths, a ring of ripples spreading out and then melting away.

The falling snow ticked and hissed as it crashed down to the earth like so many falling stars.

There was no other sound but my own breath, and my thumping heart.

I stood there, full of longing, watching for some sign of her to return. But it was no good. Such angels do not show themselves to us every day. Such miracles are too often hidden beneath the surface of our banal existence. I knew this to be true from my own experiences. On this earthly journey, such would have to suffice as my truth.

I stepped to the edge of the pool, crouching at its bank, and dipped my empty hand into the water like a cup.

I drank of that water.

No wine compared to its sweetness.

No kiss.

I stood, peering down at the blue teardrop stone in my hand, turning it over in my fingers. I tossed it out over the water – Plunk!

And then, before that little stone ever reached bottom, I turned away, heading in the direction I felt to be west.

I walked and walked.

Alone.

And as I dropped down out of the mountains,

the snow

turned into

rain.