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| Carol Oberg Riley |
Sometimes the soul speaks in images or
music or metaphors. There is no rhyme or
reason, there is no logic. The picture
or the sound just tugs and pulls and whistles, and you trip trap after it into
the forest, or away and up the track, apart from everything known. You follow
its footsteps in the snow, stumbling blind.
Snow.
How strange, how very strange that I, who feel the cold so fiercely, am
so entranced by snow.
Not tame snow. Not back garden snow.
Not snowman snow. Wilderness. Vastness. Emptiness. Deserts of snow.
And, somewhere, hidden in the forest,
by the flanks of mountains, by a fast-running river frozen to ice atop, while
below the water slows its heartbeat, there is a cabin. A glowing. Simple. Plain. Snug. Fire. A log pile. An axe. Furs.
Candlelight.
It’s not real. It’s very real. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
