Dear Mitra

It's springtime in Sweden when winter's swirling snows turn to gentle breezes with the promise of summer coming swiftly on the winds and with it the scent of the flower we call syren..there i stood in the baroque barroom, murals gazing down at me guarded by classical statues, forms frozen in splendor hugging the corners..waiting for my friend Willy who was somewhere nearby slow dancing with his married neighbor, husband out of town, unconscious to the world and my isolation. Lost..I listened to the penetrating notes of the piano occasionally glancing at the woman who had caught my eye. Not daring to dream beyond the moment i found myself descending inward to caverns of smokey gray, down through passages glittering, tunnels of time giving way, layer upon layer dissolving in rich earth hues which then found comfort in visions of summer days by the sea..waves touching shore and sea birds gliding to the saxophone, coconut sweet. Crimson flame burst..reality.. Contact with a big C, hands reaching out to mine, arms circling my waist and a soft cheek pressing connection. Somewhere high above or deep within the gods had met sending me nourishment..under lilac skies with a spark and with a sigh.

Wishing you well,

Lou