The silence of the snow is as mystical as our daughter, who lives for the woods and her words and sentences. Her voice is a lyre. She lives in each sentence and has found the rhythm of rivers, perhaps even the sound of butterflies, those very children of heaven that crown a meadow’s greenery. Sound off now, every corner of nature, for her–Cassie. Who has painted. The entire forest. With touches and smiles. Create glittering music every morning to soothe the troubles that bury us in treble-tarnish. Sit with me at the edge where heat is concealed, Cassandra.

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