I love you without knowing how

Last night we drove to the southernmost tip of the state, and in the cold, dark night, bright with stars, we watched two friends vow their love in the most poignant terms I have ever heard: two poets who found the perfect words over and over again.


We rang in the new year, huddled in corners discussing love, faith, commitment, and family in a beautiful house surrounded by delicious food.  A fortuitous start. 

Sonnet XXVII
by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of the carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

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