Sublime

So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.”

— Jorge Luis Borges

My grief says that I dared to love, that I allowed another to enter the very core of my being and find a home in my heart.

I have entered sadness as one might enter a room – this after weeks of my heart having for its habitation a place as unyielding and flat as an Essex field in winter! John Bell says: What ails you, wife? He produces gardenias, hair-combs, lenses, bracelets in amber and jet, celestial almanacs, a white hen – reminds me that the whole exchequer of his

Every book is an image of solitude.