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.
His words in her ears… Seashells divulging the secret of the sea ~ A la table du poète devant l’encrier songe le vieux papier ~ Ses cheveux noirs maison aux eaux coulants au fond de la terre ~ Matin brisé par la brume… Le souffle de la mer ~ A l’abri du silence la chandelle fane lentement la nuit ~ Peignant la nuit le noir de ses cheveux. ~ Notre amour dans dix milles ans… Etoile sur la mer ~ Eight to five job… the bird at my window teasing with his smile ~ Haiku pond the shadow of a bird passing at dusk ~ Fallen in love… The changed color of her eyes
Like freshly fallen snow, its immaculate whiteness keeping track of the slightest movement of animals, trees, and wind, her skin holds the traces of my words as they drip from my pen, as they stir in my soul.
Ma mémoire de toi est comme l’eau qui coule toujours dans le berceau du rêve océanique de ta chair
For miles and miles I drove through the night to find her lying naked by the chimney her shimmering skin aching for a drop of poetry
Her perfume, though softer than the moon’s light falling through the clouds, its billows carry me to shores unknown to mankind.
I dreamed of touching her silently slowly completely so that my touch would fill her like the light gently pours to fill the sky at dawn
Your reply to the letter I sent you years ago – at dawn a bird singing on my windowsill.
Roads are so fascinating because far off, in the distance, they always curve into some unknown, inviting and frightening, tantalizing our sense of adventure. They open us to the moment and fill us with wonder, swelling our hearts with endless possibilities.
Again and again
what I lost came back to me…
a traveler on the road