Oh, my dark, creative friend,
explorer of the abyss,
meet me where the spring runs out of the hill
when the maples go to gold against the barn
and the weather turns.
When the furnace in the basement thunders on
for the first time in months,
let us sit by the window
looking out upon the fields,
drawing circles on the glass and saying,
Here is where we spread our quilt in goldenrod.
Here is where we dozed in the sun
to the music of bees.
And here is where we made our promises,
lip to ear and mind to mind.
Even if it were all imagined.
Even as the frost vignettes the panes.
Love in gentle hearts is quickly born.
— ultimate line from Dante’s Inferno, Pinsky translation.
