pablo_neruda ovenbird When I’ve run out of words for “love” I remember that Pablo Neruda wrote one hundred sonnets for his third wife, Matilde Urrutia, and managed to turn even the dedication into a love letter. One hundred love poems, and they only scratch the surface. We poetic acolytes throw our own words into the lot. We write our hearts knowing that language will never convey the truth. I wish to fail as beautifully as Neruda: Death is only the stone of oblivion I love you, on your lips I kiss happiness itself. Let’s gather firewood. We’ll light a fire on the mountain. 260428 ... raze when he knew he was dying, he wrote: "the days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. no, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. they don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honour: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones." would that we all could see with such clarity when the last of the good light leaves us. (and here's me, wondering how it is that i never bothered to read the man's words before now.) 260428 what's it to you? who go blather from