Dear Ronda,

You are the Goddess herself.

Your perfume of frankincense, old books, and orange blossoms swirls around me as I settle into your embrace.

Your fruits nourish me with olives and you soften my thoughts with the nectar of your wine.

Cliffside palaces and cathedrals are hugged by the strength of your towering form.

You cradle me with the landscape of your curves, cloaked in green and laced with wildflowers.

I caress the many layers of your 5,000-year-old depth of humankind.

Church bells serenade me while Roman cobblestones massage my feet

as I roam your fairytale land of peacocks, feral aristo-cats, and haunting ruins echoing their ancient stories.

Your lungs breathe through the cypresses standing like witch hats, reaching up towards the heavens.

I wept and held your spirit as it infused me

simultaneously with horrifying grief, elation, and otherworldly love

during the Holy Week of Christ's resurrection.

Your sacred roots connect me with the ancestors of old,

who knew the mysteries of the elements, magic, the supernatural, and nature herself.

Oh, sweet Ronda, you have renewed and humbled my spirit.

I give my deepest gratitude as I place hand-kissed blessings upon your form.

May you continue to weave your mystical song through the fabric of time…

Your forever devotee,

Shannon