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forestbathing

forestbather

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She

 

 

In a crowd of snowflakes

footsteps collecting behind her

she waits

lamplight as lonely as the night

hope a brave desperation

 

Who painted this, a scene imbued with such recklessly overt atmosphere? I can hear the falling snow, and wonder if she is not cold, but somehow feel she is not, and yet again, my mind glances towards the forlorn figure in the distance, to check if he, or she has perhaps stepped forward. What anticipation! What a story is unfolding, with no past or future, yet a story so full it is almost bursting!