Woe to the man whose heart has not learned while young to hope, to love – and to put its trust in life.
This morning, I have
never been so close to you. I think you could be
anywhere and so I have written you here, not to forget. Yet
I don’t want to see you caught like a word in that last line.
What does the nightingale do when it runs out of things to say?
Only this: I have never been so astonished at the love of one woman
which is the way the moon finally closes its eye behind a ridge,
the way the wind never stays around long enough to see
what it has brought.