Writing. Love is writing.
O do not weep, she says, for ages past I was and I endure
There's a black rose growing in your garden.
Our minds can go no further. The human imagination is capable of no further expression of beauty than the carved owl of Athene, the archaic, marble serpent, the arrogant selfish head of the Acropolis Apollo.
Words were her plague and words were her redemption.
The laying of fish on the embers, the taste of the fish, the feel of the texture of bread, the round and the half-loaf, the grain of a petal, the rain-bow and the rain.