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There is a meadow in my perfect world.
Where wind dances the branches of a tree,
casting leopard spots of light across the face of a pond…
The tree stands tall and grand and alone,
shading the world beneath it.

There will come a day when I rest
against its spine and look out over a valley
where the sun warms, but never burns…

I will watch leaves turn.
Green, then amber, then crimson.
Then no leaves at all...

But the tree will not die.
For in this place, winter never comes…
It is here, in my cradle of all I hold dear,
I guard every memory of you.

And when I find myself frozen in the mud of the real -
far from your loving eyes, I will return to this place,
close mine, and take solace in the simple perfection
of knowing you.

(aus: Wind river)