What left knew how to return. How happy the time when, if a path disappeared, we knew it was only because there was no reason to go onward, on this side of the end of the world.
-- Yves Bonnefoy
It rained, during the night.
the path smells of wet grass,
then, once again, the hand of the heat
on our shoulder, to say
that time will never take anything from us.
there where the field runs up against the almond tree,
a beast of prey has sprung
from yesterday to today through the leaves.
And we stop, it is outside the world,
and I come toward you,
I finish tearing you from the blackened trunk,
branch, lightning-struck summer
from which yesterday's sap flows, still divine.
(from In the Shadow's Light, translated from the French by John Naughton)
The torch of Yves Bonnefoy's words continues to flicker along the path, even as he himself has slipped past our reach. I imagine him awaiting all of us readers on a higher pinnacle than we have yet conquered, sending the echo of a wry and gentle smile into our dawns and dusks.
You know it is Debussy, when you hear the pianist making love to the piano.
-- a quote from one of my daughters