Down from the mountains in the autumn come the bears, the elk, the Aspen leaves burning red and flowing like lava down the canyons, down from the cold in the peaks. Lava from a volcano you never knew was there.
Elk whistle in the moonlight, bears wait for the snow that will not melt, before sleeping. Down from the mountains blows life.
Down from the mountains, in the autumn, comes a taste of snow, and memories of spring, of the sounds of growth, of the sounds of love, realized. Hopes fulfilled, dreams made true.
Really it is all there with the Aspin, flowing down from the mountains.
Hope knows spring. Hope knows frozen ground needs time and persistence, and real life for a seed pushing to burst free, to reach through the frost for the sun, to blossom like a heart connected.
Hope knows a lot, I think. Above all things, hope knows persistence. Hope also knows the truth in a dream worth dreaming. Hope knows love.
Love knows no other way.
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