The way the wind swayed outside yesterday, an image came to mind...a barren place–no, not barren, a cemetery...I see a young girl walking, she's in a white flowing night dress trimmed at the edges with lace. She wanders through the cemetery of her thoughts, unable to get out of the cemetery.
She continues walking until she comes upon a tuft of wheat grass; as she continues, a whole field opens up to her and it's empty, except she doesn't feel alone. She feels a presence, only it's not any one presence, it's like a gust of love that surrounds her. The wheat grass starts to speak to her. He moves and sways in a gentle, but strong way, tickling her ears with his secrets.
After a time, she waves, says goodbye, walks through the cemetery one more time, stopping slowly at each stone, observing an extra moment of silence.
She takes the clump of wheat that the wind placed in her hands, ties it together and places it in the pocket of her nightdress. Just beyond the cemetery, she finds a ladder hanging, suspended in the night air. The ladder is fashioned from silk, the steps a shiny bone dusted with essence of the moon. She puts one foot on the ladder to steady herself, then pulls herself up and begins the climb.