Often I feel a presence, something that used to be here, and now is not. You can’t see it, or touch it, or hear it — it hovers just beyond reach, like a whisper of a melody you can barely remember.The flame and its heat and light are gone. And the blade. So is a little creature who lived in trees and clouds. And gone is the one who wore her masks with an elegance and grace you remember all too well.
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More images and reflections on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com