Spring Mist

The Confessions Cycle



I want you to know one thing.You know how this is:If I look at the crystal moon,at the red branchof the slow autumn at my window,if I touch near the fire the impalpable ashor the wrinkled body of the log,everything carries me to you,as if everything that exists,aromas, light, metals,were little boats that sailtowards those isles of yoursthat wait for me.Well now,if little by little you stop loving me,I shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenlyyou forget medo not look for me,for I shall already have forgotten you.If you think it long and madthe wind of banners,that passes through my life,and you decideto leave me at the shoreof the heart where I have rootsrememberthat on that day, at that hour,I shall lift my armsand my roots will set offto seek another land.But if each day, each hour,you feel you are destined for mewith implacable sweetness,if each day a flowerclimbs up to your lips to seek me,ah my love, ah my own,in me all that fire is repeated,in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,my love feeds on your love, beloved,and as long as you live it will be in your armswithout leaving mine.

Margaret Atwood