Photo by Jeff Bark

My soul, grant me in your kisses the briny water of these months, the honey of the region, the fragrance moistened by the sky’s thousand lips, the sacred patience of the sea in winter. Something calls us: All the doors open by themselves, the water tells a great story to the window-panes, the sky extends down to touch the roots, and like this the day weaves and unweaves its celestial net with time, salt, murmurs, growth, pathways, a woman, a man, and winter on the Earth.
Pablo Neruda