I wake to a fragment of a memory of Misty Mary, my friend - such sweetness, and such power in it. She has firmness without harshness - bends like the proverbial reed in the wind but admits she also breaks. She accepts her fragility, clothing it in femininity, lace and velvet. I see her as the rounded mountain, buffeted by shrieking winds, slapped by sneering rain and thumps of thunder in a harsh bass darkness. Yet afterwards there is a fine tracery still, A crochet of pale, tiny, exquisite alpine flowers and finger curls of fronded baby fern, surviving, like the mountain hare reaching up for a bright berry beside the ruffled ribbon of a slender stream. I see the kind smile, the mountain-black hair, feel the strength of her support. There's a sweet wistfulness, then a rustle - the glide of her long light gown the same faintest pink as the healing sunrise that softens the peak; then she melts into the morning mist where frothed spirit arms beckon, leaving a vista of pure clear air and heady delicacy.