I am searching the world for you, my love. Builder of treehouses and the perfect cuppa tea. Lover of pugs and dreamer of a quieter, more peaceful planet. Birdwatcher, dream chaser, river rafter, tree climber. We have walked in the still of the night, under the same stars and sliver of a moon. We see them but from a different side of the world. I somehow know that you are in Scotland, I scour the rolling hills and thick woodlands. Hiked the highlands and the lowlands but somehow find you online and in Sweden of all places! Ready to dig in the lush dirt of your native farmlands. Co-mingle our rich dirt, loamy with peaty. My clay, silt, sand, gravel and yes even boulders with your Peaty Gleys and podzols. Piping hot bowls of Scottish oats with Irish butter. Earl Grey tea with tupelo honey. This morning the sun rose early above the hickory grove. The sky was a particular shade of deep red vermillion. The frost hung onto the weeds and branches waiting for the heat of the day, which today would be a brisk 37, but at sunrise was 12. My heart hangs in the tops of the trees, I graze on hickory nuts, husking the woody outer shell onto the frozen ground below. My mind has flown south for the winter, leaving my heart alone in this frozen wasteland. without the ability to reason I long to take flight, to lift off, to soar high above the frozen rivers and lakes. I fly south by south-west until the heavens start to turn to deep hues of Ultramarine and the horizon is on fire with a burst of shocking pink. It seems impossible, and unfathomable to see these colors at the same time. Only from the wings of my heart, seeking the warmth of your shoulder to lean upon. To have you wrap your strong arms around my tiny frame in comparison to yours. You are an artist that paints with your dreams, which have been distilled down into pure hues and luminous powders that when water is added become another color altogether. You paint my naked body with robes of saffron. You have milked the trees of the Garcinia trees for centuries to have your storehouses of resin. The flat round cakes that are stacked like poker chips in scarlet red velvet satchels. You carry them on your back along with tiny cobalt blue vials of dragon tears. You are my alchemist, the edge pieces of my puzzle that make it so effortless for me to take the next breath and the next, like a child that has followed the same dirt path to school for years, knowing how each step feels beneath their bare feet. I wear no mask for you. I climb out of my lookout, high in the treetops and put on the water for a cuppa tea with you. Earl grey with Tupelo honey.