Torch of love
A weather vane, swiveled on its spindle, catching a cold breath of tomorrow.
It was a wind that carried no sound, only the promise of change. Below, in the
hushed valley, the world lay in wait. Only the winds knew how deep the snow
would be—a blanket vast enough to quiet the earth, or merely a dusting of the
coming dawn. The vane held its rigid vigil, a silent prophet of the chill that
seeped into the marrow of the air.
It was all quiet, dormant in layers of hope. Yet the wind was still there. Like a torch. It will be, it will come. It was as if it wispered, I lay here, the wind of change, brought on these shores by the aeons. I am no easy. I am a torch, the promise of love, to be carried by those that are awake on these dormant landscapes.
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