We miss you here. This sensible world, so far from your island, has yet to fully transmute your gold into a living thing: sadly, it remains stored in a vault that opens every now and again for the lucky few to journey to and through and live with in memory only. But I am thankful for those special sharings, those lengthy dust-gilded meals where you have held court for us, that in fact were far too short, far too infrequent, or am I just being greedy? How many years has it been since you fled to that island? It is tempting to follow you, but I am compelled to stay here in this life with its glorious variations, vagueries and arguments. And yet I reiterate my impoverishment, my great hunger for the strength and certainty of your elemental light, wondering when that vagabond sun might reach me through these overcast skies. The wait is unbearable. Within these intervening eons, I have tried my hand at your spinning wheel, hoping to spin magic from this straw I live in and with, and though a few glimmers of spirit reward me now and again, those shinings do not (as yours do) glint off that storied metal formed in the belly of stars, but sparkle within those shifting crystals of salts that make up my stained glass tributes to you, echoes of jade and tracings of dark passageways along which I hope to spill my moonlight tribute to you, always.