It was rainy and dreary here on Monday, then foggy as anything yesterday morning. Nothing inspires me quite the way fog and rain do, especially at this time of year. Add to that “Gretchen am Spinnrade,” which has been getting a lot of play on my iPod, and I quickly found myself in Inspiration City. This piece has been brewing for a couple of days, and I hope you like it. 🙂

The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul, and she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. If she could just find him, then she’d be free.

But the fog hid more than her drooping frame, and the rain did wash freedom’s sun away. She searched through the windows, tore open the door, but the fog hid her love forevermore. She climbed up the mountain, looked high and low, but the fog hid everything in the valley below.

Then a flash caught her eye and without hesitation, she stepped into the sky. She dove toward the lake where he’d rested his head on a pillow of stone, with sand for a bed. But a trick of the light was all it had been, and the freezing cold water welcomed her in. The bitter blue waves stole every breath; with tears in her eyes, she at last greeted Death.

The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul; she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. But she never could find him; she’ll never be free.

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