Monday, February 28, 2005

I leaf through the book, but struggle because Neruda is a man, writing love poems to his woman. Can I change some word to make it work? Sitting beside him with the book opened, I apologize, explaining the disconnect... preparing to read... hoping he'll bridge the gap. Instead he takes the book gently from my hands, reads back the words to me. He cannot know how this undoes me. Then scans the pages, finds another, and reads again. There is no tomorrow and no yesterday, only his voice, my heartbeat, and the mystery of us.

And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.
Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.
The night turns on its invisible wheels,
and you are pure beside me as sleeping amber.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away;
your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move after,

following the folding water you carry, that carries
me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

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