Lived simply, in deep attention and presence, a life can be so full that its echo reverberates to the stillness of the stars — the garden’s dust on my shoes, a good book, a cup of aged wine, and your face, beloved, hovering around all things like a cloud, their inner light, their intimate aura. I write to you today as the sun sets over another autumn day, as the wind withers away the leaves and grass leaving nature and my thoughts bared down to their essence. Time is moving and life is trickling away, yet a deeper stillness is settling in my heart. It feels to me as though, if I lift my hand, I could almost touch your face; as though the warmth of your breath is mingled with mine. This silence is a prayer. I listen to the wind in the yellowing leaves. I write another poem penned with the ink of your love.
Long after you were gone I still went to bed with your ghost every night, making love to nothing more than a memory, to my need for you, to all the ways in which I dreamed you and constructed you in my mind. I fashioned you out of light and poetry, out of pure passion, an unreal being that I now had to let go, to let you fly and vanish amid the turning stars. Now I let you go and deepen in this longing turning like a universe at the center of my heart.
Choose her from a place of strength and abundance of love, because your heart does not tire from gazing into the mystery of her eyes, because she enlivens your soul and with her light fills up your life. Choose her because you want to be her anchor and safe house, because you want to cradle her desires and dreams, because you are so full in your love for her that you are able to make her overflow with love and light. Choose her because you want her with your whole heart.
How should I describe my feelings for you?—a fire burning wildly, tearing through a blossoming garden, yet, somehow, leaving it greener and more fragrant than it was before, budding with new varieties of trees, fruits, and flowers!
The cedar tree has three to four times its height above the earth as a root spreading underneath it. I, in my visible form, what length does my root have, and what is it spreading into? Who would believe me, beloved, when I say that my root is invisible, that it does not stretch directly from my body, but rather, somehow, extends through the inwardness of my heart? Who would believe me when I say that through my heart it spreads into your earth and sky, and that the poem is the most accurate tool to measure its length and the most valuable proof for its existence? Who would believe me? Yet the ultimate truths cannot be heard or touched; they can be only felt and understood through the medium of the heart. What are you, then, you into whom my root spreads so deep, and what is the nature of the desire that propels it into you? You are the eternal moment of love; you are the openness of the heart.
Ever since I met you I stopped writing and opened my heart more and more to the brilliance of your light. One day in a single shared breath I hope to achieve what poets long for in a thousand, thousand poems written in the deep ache of the night. One day, carried by your waves to the shore of no return, I hope that your light in my depth uncovers the secret face of love, the sun of joy that everyone, knowingly or unknowingly, long for every single breath of their lives. I stopped writing because I no longer need to. Whatever words come they rise from the source which your light like a key has unlocked in my heart.
One moment with you, however fleeting, is preferable to an achievement that would immortalize my name. The dust of your love is a better reward than the world and its riches, which men so adore. Lover, my longing for you is the only constant in an ever changing world, and if I have to call you by one word it would be this: Openness. You are the openness of my heart, and a world flung open in the arms of God.
the camellias of her breath
flowering in my soul
Once I needed to touch you in order to feel you. Then the mere thought of you invaded me and soaked my soul. Now I realize, I am a flame rising from that which lies between us, the white chasm of love. Now I realize, to think of you or not to think of you is a false paradox — the sun and the moon, even out of sight, are always in each other’s company; the thread does not bind us outwardly; we rise from each other; in each other we live and die; we are the creative thought of love.