Chapter Three.

I sit cradled in the Night's silent and shadowy embrace, but sleep does not find me.
Only my weary heart seeks reprieve from the toils of the day, for I am captured by a new vision that delivers me unto a state of restlessness.
The imminent need to interpret its meaning keeps my eyes pinned open in the darkness, and all I see is the image of a maiden with streaming sunflower tresses running across a flower-speckled meadow.
She looks back at me with an inviting smile and begins to twirl amidst the swaying wildflowers, with a will to entice me further into the dream where she and I must surely come
together in the fields of serenity.
When the vision fades into the taciturn shadows of night, I am left in the cold clutches of longing.
The course of my chosen destiny now seems hollow in comparison to the pursuit of the majestic vision gifted to me by my Flower-Maiden--She whose dancing footsteps choreograph the epic saga of my existence with all the inspiring grace of a ballerina.
Before she touched my Soul like a dallying wind at eventide, I existed in an unbecoming state of hopelessness.
Now she is here, and through her whimsical flight across the blooming planes of my dreams I am given the chance to restore my dignity.
I am the Blue North Rose, and she is my Keeper.
In the waning hours of the night, I find myself outside my domicile listening to the runic whispers of breeze-rustled trees.
These wise and ancient beings ward my hermitage and admonish me on the grim perils of my pursuit.
The trees warn me that a hermit never embraces the fool unless necessity demands that he drop his lantern and leave the wildwood, that he might walk blindly through the societies of man once again.
The hermit is the untamed spirit of the woodlands, yet in his contemplative existence he has
achieved a profound wisdom and understanding by which he becomes at-one with the Cycles of
Creation.
And his lantern is his will, alight with the intent to live comfortably apart from all things while being a part of all things.
The trees tell me that the fool is a restless spirit: unfulfilled by his present state, a wanderlust
captures him and forces him to shed the routine goingson of his existence to pursue an unknown mystery.
The fool is blind, for he must trust the compelling force that moves him toward the edge of a cliff and gaze down into the deep dark maw of a canyon, where he must of necessity choose to leap or turn away from his calling.
I study the words of those wise sentinels and wonder if such a warning holds weight against
the beauty of she who sings to me a song of new adventures.
She calls to me with the desire for me to capture her from the prison of her worldly sorrows and bring her back with me into the Woodland Barrier.
And there I will no longer be the fool or the hermit, nor she a Maiden in distress.
There in the groves we shall explore the mysteries of creation together as one, and make the memories that drive the Wheels of Life and Time further into Eternity.
I sit and stare into the shifting shadows of midnight and realize what we shall become....
I am her Hierophant, and she is my High Priestess....

© Leonard Rocco Grillo