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"Perhaps love is the process of my leading you gently back to yourself. Not whom I want you to be, but to who you are." Antoine de Saint Exupery

I scored a hardcover collection of Ted Hughes’ poetry cheap cheap last night. While bonding with the pages I came across this:

To be a Girl’s Diary 

Crumblings, glanced into
By strange smiles, in a saleroom,
Where the dust is of eyes and hearts, in proportion,
As well as of old shoes, meteors, and dung …

To be an heirloom spoon, blackening
Among roots in a thorn-hedge, forgetful
Of flavours as of tongues,
Fleeting towards heavenly dispersal,
Walked by spiders…

Nightfall collects the stars
Only in a manner of speaking.

Everything is inheriting everything.

 

Indeed.

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