little church in the vale

My Darling,

I have found our place. All ours. There’s a single trail near Old Post Road, right amongst where the fragrant pine needles thickly cover the gravel road that lazily winds upwards along the North slope, off the beaten trail not taken, appropriate here on Frost’s birthday. I stepped carefully over polished rocks in a silent creek, losing my balance once, my left foot dipping ankle deep in cold water and my backpack splashing before me. Everything was soaked - all my poems. That is why I’m writing this letter on napkins here at a little café called The Magpie Junction Diner, under the churlish eyes of a waitress in a dirty apron. It’s really a charming place though, lovely blue and white checkered oil cloth covered round tables, and the coffee ain’t bad. The French Toast came hot enough to melt butter. Across the quiet street is The Black Buggy General Store. I’ll check there for thick dry socks soon. And to mail all these napkins. I imagine the envelope will look like a small pillow to you. You can pluck the feathers but keep them away from moisture.

Emerging on a plateau beyond the creek just past the North slope the road fell sharply, an old faint sign bolt upright says Graveyard Road, surrounded on both sides by yellow flowers.(I’ve asked for more napkins. She looks less like an angry schoolmarm, maybe I’ve won her over - she's reading napkin number 4 and making corrections). You’ll see when you come, Darling, I have no idea what type of flower. That is, if you can manage crossing the creek without being swept away. In the cold sunshine, beyond a clearing of pines, was the remains of an old church, roof caved in, mildewed planks, splintered floors, low stone wall lined driveway intact. The light coming in from above seemed to carry a voice of many past voices from 100 years of prayers. One weeping willow stands in majestic solitude among the pines. It can easily be saved when I rebuild. When WE rebuild, yes. From a distance the willow looks like fireworks falling from the sky, and I can imagine frosted in the dead of winter it would resemble a frozen fountain bubbling over. But somehow, Darling, with you here I know Winter will never arrive.

Your servant,
Phil

p.s. pack a hammer and hiking boots.