Hunger Satisfied

I found my book,
the stunning compilation
of Neruda's Odes.
Sure enough it's there--
"the bread of her fragrance"--
it's the penultimate line of Ode to Love,
in case you were wondering too.

I decided to peruse the entire volume,
but progress is slow.
The odes to Happiness
and to Love are full and complete
and erupt with such passion
that so far I have managed
to read just those first two
over and over.

"My hands are narrow:
the depths of my eyes, humble
to receive
her treasures,
the unbounded cascade of radiance,
the golden thread,
the bread of her fragrance:
they are simply, Love, my life."

I could move on.
There are, after all,
hundreds of pages that follow.
But the words are rich
as though they themselves possess
the power to sustain.

Perhaps this is what he meant
when he spoke of permanent bread.