She writes of what she knows, of cliffside walks and fireside conversations and books that end with a sigh on the lips and a prick of the heart. It is challenging for her to write of battles and fiery declamations or of back and forth duels or action set pieces. She at times wishes she had a more exciting life on which to draw rich inspiration for she knows not what it is to crawl in the mud in the trenches of a war which long ago ceased to have any meaning or forward drive. Think of the scars on her soul and the weariness of heart that would have resulted from such a campaign and think of the poetry that would of necessity sprung forth.

But one look into the eyes of her bosom companion persuaded her that perhaps it was for the best that her life up until now had really been rather boring. When she looked into his eyes and saw the pain that seemed to leak through at the most odd moments, she, well – she knew she would have broken long before. And even if the best art comes from the most broken amongst us, who can say that she would not have been one of the broken ones who only brings forth crumbling potsherds and ashy rags, crumbling crying on the rug afore the fire? A few are marked for greatness and for gold shining forth from that ancient forge. But there are too many shattered skeletons nearby that belie the idea that beauty needs only a little fire to metamorphosize into the divine.

Remember this, she says to herself softly. Remember this. And then she reaches across the table and takes his hand and squeezes it gently as she kisses him with her eyes. She thinks of her notebook on the coffee table and her half-written scribbling of a girl walking through the meadow grass as the last of the evening sun shines through the winter branches. That girl walks in beauty and knows it in the moment. That is a precious gift and shall not be squandered.

Remember and hold on to beauty, she whispers to him now. I do he responds soft. But it’s not quite as hard as you think, for I am also one who is held. And the arms around me are made of sterner stuff than even my nightmares dare to be. His smile broke through and he lifts his hands in mock surprise. Even I too though mortal am reminded by these words of my immortality. Does that seem quite odd to you? That’s the paradox of resurrection. That’s a slender sapling growing up through the ash. That’s a scorched seed falling slowly through the wind. That music you hear? That’s an echo of the song that even now my heart yearns to sing in full. Someday, she says. Springtime comes.