The redbud was not yet in bloom, but still, she adorned window in life-color; cherry blossom of fairer bright—a whiteness in the pink that touched of a delicateness and new innocence in spring—in corner of room and catch of window light.
She hung her purse and gazed on the blooms, black and white framing of a forever memory, and her heart warmed in the season and signs—to know that she was home.
Wind chimes spoke in the neighborhood winds. Shadow-hints of the wind told in stir and change of the window light but within, cherry blossoms rested still, pastel of their pink given life by the wind outside though remaining still and unchanged indoors.
A flush of feeling began in her then, a warmth stirred in sights and light-dazzle of wind’s blow—of the season, of the day, of whiteness in the pink, delicateness, innocence, her own living blossom-bloom, to know and be alive.
She hung her coat on hook by purse, new sense on bare arms’ open skin; and from the window-light and cherry-blossom’s fair, framed memory there before, she abandoned and sought for him; ascended wooden staircase with its turn in total windowed light—warm and strong as if a few short feet’s ascension was as western mountains’ climb; new heights, new closeness, new sense and way of sun to self in nearness of the source. She found him then through opened door, room of whitewashed pure, radiant in spring-day sun; and over spread of white-down cloud, she loved him in the passion, heat, and spirit of mountain sun upon their skin.