Dance. The song is here. Weeping is song, water flowing out of eyes, struck by the ray. Laughter, when it sounds low, purrs, one won’t get cold. Stretch out your hand and take the apple, grab it, take these letters in which we are as touching as people always are for each other: leaning toward each other, asking questions, afraid of being hurt, wrapping small presents in kraft paper, giving, giving. “I hope you like the little ones!” It’s all here, the glass jar of raspberry jam, picked the berries myself, made the jam, the message slowly inscribed on a card: I picked these raspberries in the woods, by the side of the pond, and when darkness fell, the pond lit up the forest.
© Tässä on valo (WSOY, 2009)