A Love Letter to Ria by Todd Spire

This month, we’re celebrating the power of Love Letters from the heart of the Hudson Valley. A diverse group of creatives, local changemakers, and visionaries have been invited to share their personal tributes—honoring special people, places, and experiences in their lives through unique expressions of love. Whether presented as poetry or something more akin to a traditional letter, their words invite us to savor what matters most. In this installment, Todd Spire–– a writer, nature advocate, and multi-faceted creative––expresses his love for a particular river that courses through this valley.

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Dear Beloved…

Hello my sweet! I hope this letter finds you as well as all my others. I miss you, as always, but today I send you a fond memory from the mountains. Today, I am writing from the belly of our “stark white” winter! The one we jokingly longed for that summer day. Do you remember? We hid from the sun beneath a streamside tree. Our mid-week rambles. No one to see us. Plenty to see. The waters so scarce we could barely glimpse our reflection in the paper thin puddles of July’s dry lips. Those tiny petals of the black locust falling like a gentle snow and you whispered in my ear. Slowly… like a poem…

“Stark
white
winter
storm”

I remember the tingle. My hairs standing upright and the sweet smell of the flowers. Their white and husk decorating your hair. Settling on the blanket. Yellows and blue. Stripes piercing the soft curves of petal and of you. An accumulation softly circling in a tiny eddy within the stream’s muted flows. It looked animated. Like Seurat made a film about flowers and the universe. Do you remember the day?

We watched eagle and mink and spoke of their resiliency in the winter months. Who on earth would evolve to raise fledglings in the deepest soul of a northeastern winter? And we prayed. In the midst of rain’s absence, we prayed for snow. A stark white winter storm to force us between sheets for days on end. Hiding. Loving. Longing once more… for the heat.

But today, like most days, I am here, gazing… wishing I was with you instead of watching from the wings of mourning dove and chickadee. I see you always. Your southern parade is a beautiful thing to admire from afar. I see cities step aside, but to watch you pass. I see you splitting the woods. While I, now buried knees deep in snow, barely muster the will to visit the ridge, to kindle the fire that I build for but one. I know you are thriving in the south, but please, I beg you again… come home. Dive into this mist with me. This frozen water’s blanket is too heavy to hold the weight of myself alone. It needs the hill and valley of your hip. The careen of languid leg to slow the pace of snowmelt and time. And I need it all. Wrapped tightly ‘round. Held close in a stark silence. To match our will’s unlikely manifest of this destiny, now divided by space and snow. We made this day, but only I remained to see it through.

I apologize, my sweet, for I am a selfish man. I know I could come to you, but why bother your beauty in a world full of a world… all wanting you? I am neither thief nor jailer and I must let you run. I know it. I also know that day by the stream lingers as long in your heart as it does in mine. I know you will not toss this letter aside, unread. I know some things operate on faith, as I know some things are whispered in moments. The coyotes hollow howl rings daily. Neither winter nor drought deviate the fear filled echos of their kill. I know your howl will return, and as such I allow my heart to ache within your silence. A silence so destined to break and thus un-break my winter’s frigid soul of unrequited blissful faith.

My solemn and silent vow then… to worship the memory of your lips in spring. The rapid’s return. Your empty dress, now folded over the arm of the chaise upon which you used to lounge, refilled with the beauty of your heavenly body. The simple syrup we’d made from the locust flower will once again sweeten our lavender tea. We will frolic with the breath of the blackbird. We will strain our necks to catch glimpses all but blocked by the thicket of summer’s leaves. We will toss wild rose into the stream and listen for the trout’s leap in the moonlight. For now, I will wait for stars to align and I will whistle our favorite tune to the birds of our stark and snow covered hills.

Your loving songbird,

Todd

Read More Love Letters Here

A Love Letter to our Hudson Valley Rivers by Eric Archer Dahlberg

A Love Letter to Community by Amanda Cassaday

A Love Letter to Love by Artist Mimi Young

A Love Letter to an Oak Tree by Rebecca Collins Brooks

A Love Letter to My Backyard by Amanda Russo Rubman

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MORE ABOUT TODD SPIRE

Todd Spire is a contributing writer to Inside + Out Upstate NY who has lived in the Catskill Mountains for nearly 20 years. He is a trustee of the John Burroughs Woodchuck Lodge, a fly fishing guide, and the host of Words Over Water, a podcast that highlights watershed conservation issues across our region. More of his writing can be found on Substack @CatskillsMade and his photography on Instagram @ToddSpire. Read more about him HERE.

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Click HERE for more of our “Love in the Valley” Series.