A white dove glides, the white wind where white clouds above a white cap shiver around to warm in the rising round white sun.

 

The skies, are too bright to see. They are reflected white on the still lake that is before me, it is glassy in unruffled luster.

 

I become intent on the white images that I can no longer make-out to be in the white waters beneath, or miles above, in the white sky. For as the sun fully rises and its white rainbow casts thick over the landscape. I see the white dove settle and roost, softly, upon the white branches of a pine tree, deep in the tarn. Above the white clouds, in tiny ruffles on the white sky, there I see the white fish and with it the white star. They pace gently like white ducks upon the tide, gently dancing to the white song.

 

Beneath the lake and above the sky, all is a shimmering brightness of the infinite flutter of white wings of countless butterflies. Then, suddenly, a mist, the breath of the white hills emits and descends, spreading its wings wider and wider. The light is extinguished for a moment and so are dissolved the herds of countless reindeer into a faintly visible background of white pine trees. 

 

Then I hear the deep trudging behind me. It is the white noise. As it gets closer and louder there is a rush of my white blood. I turn around. A fearfully white image emerges and presents itself before me and the white mist. The wolf. It is his heavy coat of long white fur that betrays him. But another voice, white and tender, races from behind him and pacifies his hateful grunts and the looks of his white beast. My peace prevails. I sigh deep and in relief.

 

I hear the white footsteps, soft and sly, crouching in lyrical music of white peace. I raise my eyes,in joy my guest to receive in warmth. There she strides,  past the veil of white mists covered in lyrical shroud, from the head to toe. A few long hairs, white, above her brow wrestle with the white wind above the ground and together, in soft tides, tumble gently about her soft white face.

 

Her eyes, like her teeth, are cute and mystical as they are white. Her nose and neck, long and slender never timid as her white lips.

 

She stretches her white arms and rolls the shroud to conceal her face and neck. Then she covers her arms and rests them somewhere beneath her white heart. She plants herself immovable before me.

 

I look at her, with open mouth, intently at the mere details of her frame. For a moment I ponder why such natural and obviously white features should afflict me so. I pause to wonder, what is the magic in her frame that absolutely devours my composure and wrecks me invalidly white? Her tenderness and white beauty, I suppose her white elegance and unshowing strength. Could it be the unification, that perhaps she encompasses the totality of this white paradise and its peculiarity?

 

Words are hard to come by, actions even harder. I can only stand there speechless and immobile. I suppose she understands my predicament, for why else has she faith in my singular desire or my white affections or even more, faith in my love without a shade?

 

I dare her and we dance, at the lake. We dance the white dance. I hold her closer and tightly so that the jealously white wind cannot blow her away from me.

 

We trip and fall, and roll, and tumble, softly. Yet, I still hold her closer and tightly.

 

We rise, but slip, skidding across the glassy sheets of all white, fighting for balance, fighting for composure, fighting for the very air. White air. I hold her closely and tightly.

 

We trip and fall, and roll, and tumble, softly into the white lake. We’re soaking wet with the white waters. We’re a mess.

 

We trade glances, at our messy selves, embarrassed, but then we burst into laughter at our silly selves. I rise and raise her but she tricks me and trips me again. I collapse back into the white lake. 

 

We splash each other with the white water, our joy infinite. But then we stop and fall back speechless and motionless. At length it is she that pulls me to her and as her lips search for mine and hers on mine, I tell her my white truth about the intensity of this thing that I feel about her.

 

You may call it fate or reality or whatever you wish, but this thing that my heart feels when the white sun shines orange, when the white dove and the pine tree resurface to the crystal air of the red earth and green grass, and when the white fish departs back into its crystal waters. This thing that I feel in the color of the sky, as it drips and stains the entire face of the lake; is this very singular thing that I feel when she leaves for good is truly Blue.