MemorandumUnfortunate

Dear Joan Whittleborn, alone on one plain of silent doubt. Her grief as tall as the pines which surround her, which muster whispers, of a dance of the past. For whom does she grieve, this maiden of the wood. A wandering spirit, caught perhaps? On the hopelessness of a wandering road? What dreams keep her troubled so, left but in relief, to gaze onto a brightened moon. ...for a winters chill corrupts the wind, bringing laughter to the fates. And dear, dear Joan Whittleborn, her fragile form across the snow. Sings now happily, with the life she gave, of a love that she did know.