The man walks alone.

Up into the country with its rolling hills,

Looking for her,

In the place where the sun draws its patterns on the ground,

Where the shimmering light warns your face,

Warms your heart,

But not his.

Because he can't find her.

He keeps looking, even where the sun doesn't hit.

In deep holes and dark caverns

In places where the only light you get you have to make,

In your hand, in your mind,

In your heart.

Because that's the only place it really matters, isn't it?

Even though the day is warm he's cold.

He knows he will find her if he keeps looking hard enough, or,

At least he believes he will,

And that's the only thing that really matters, isn't it?

And sometimes, when he goes up into the mountains,

And the sun is so bright; it hurts your eyes,

Even when they're closed.

And you feel if you stand still long enough you will be burned alive,

Right where you stand.

Just the sort of day she would have liked,

But he doesn't feel the warmth.

He closes his eyes and listens, and he hears her voice, talking to him,

But he can't make it out.

It's just a faint murmur, riding on the wind,

Or maybe it is the wind,

And the sun,

Whispering secrets…

But in his mind, he pretends it's her, and in his heart he believes it's her, telling him that she will come,

And that's what he believes, because that's what he needs to believe.

And in the hills with the sun and the light and the wind,

That's all that matters to him,

That's all that matters.

And maybe he's still there, listening to voices,

He can't quite make out,

Waiting for something,

That he's not sure is real,

Waiting for the warmth to come.