If There Were A Word More Loving Than Love

How did we meet?
One day, a butterfly flew like a petal and made a small flutter
How did we meet and end up here?
The corner of the street where we exchanged our love in spring.
It was a sudden miracle.
We slowly held hands as we walked down the street together.
The dandelions beneath the telephone pole swayed brightly.
How did we manage to walk pass all those times together?
Were we able to reach love because we walked past such lovable moments?
I came to believe there’s no such thing as coincidence in love
In order to make two people fall in love with each other
I believe universe calculates even the smallest of happenings
Including the wings stroke of a butterfly.
An inevitable miracle.
I didn’t want to think that…we met by a mere coincidence.
So…the only thing I can do is to do my best…

Once, I read the page of the book you used to read aloud to myself.
Once, I sat on the chair you used to sit on and closed my eyes in order to feel your warmth.
Once, I even caressed the rim of the cup you used to use with my fingertips
An inevitable miracle.
I didn’t want to think that…we met by a mere coincidence.
So…the only thing I can do is to do my best…
To love you
At the moment, I am…passing through your love.

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Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
go,
to let it go.

– Mary Oliver

Posted in oui |

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I remember her words, she whom I am no longer friends with: Some people just take a little longer to find happiness.

Posted in oui |

Tear

Things were tremendously complicated, to be sure, but one thing was clear: no one needed me.

– Haruki Murakami

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L’essentiel Est Invisible Pour Les Yeux

“What does that mean–‘tame’?”

“It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. It means to establish ties.”

“‘To establish ties’?”

“Just that,” said the fox. “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . .”

*

“If you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . .”

*

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

“You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.”

And the roses were very much embarassed.

“You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you–the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.

On ne voit bien qu’avec le cœur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

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