"…I lived on air that crossed me from sweet things, the flow of - was it musk from hidden grapevine springs downhill at dusk? I had the swirl and ache from sprays of honeysuckle that when they’re gathered shake dew on the knuckle. I craved strong sweets, but those seemed strong when I was young; the petal of the rose it was that stung. Now no joy but lacks salt, that is not dashed with pain and weariness and fault. I crave the stain of tears, the aftermark of almost too much love, the sweet of bitter bark and burning clove. When stiff and sore and scarred, I take away my hand from leaning on it hard in grass and sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength to feel the earth as rough to all my length."