To my dear Bert…
You know how this is:
If I look at the crystal moon,
at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled bodies of the logs,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were like little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
with thanks to Pablo Neruda who was unafraid to love, and thus could write this verse.