Things come in threes.
Two people come together and create a third entity called love; a braid of spun gold, woven and intricate. A number of perfection and power and superstition.

We went running through the woods yesterday, hearts on fire with the sun and the whistling wind, bared teeth smiles revelling in the sensuality of the brand new season. Earth and air and water. Small delicate bell-shaped amethyst flowers peeked beneath fringed foliage and pale green leaves of Indian plum, and halfway up the hillside folded a blanket of bright white trillium.

Each trillium bulb produces three broad heart-shaped leaves at the base, a short flower stalk, and a single flower with three petals. The flower blooms for a week before dropping its petals like a discarded crown to set seeds in a three-sided pod.

We hinge our dreams with hope and desire and necessity. It folds triangular, the Sphinx' riddle, the shape of destiny.

What remains important?