“You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.”

Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness.

In the distance someone is singing.

Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves.

What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

I love you as one loves certain dark things.

I move in the university of the waves.

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we’re neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

Those who first invented and then named the constellations were storytellers.

The stars threaded on that line were like events threaded on a narrative. Imagining the constellations did not of course change the stars, nor did it change the black emptiness that surrounds them. What it changed was the way people read the night sky.

In space there are countless constellations, suns and planets; we see only the suns because they give light; the planets remain invisible, for they are small and dark.

Those freckles make you seem like a galaxy of stars, just waiting to be explored and loved.

Some people are born with tornadoes in their lives, but constellations in their eyes. Other people are born with stars at their feet, but their souls are lost at sea.

She has constellations in her wilding soul, a soft-paced heart in a spirit beyond control.

The stars in my head form a constellation out of my soul.

Things are as they are. Looking out into the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.