I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
Pablo Neruda, from Sonnet XVII
Without their chloroplasts plants would be left like the rest of us, to eat what they find. Instead they hold out their green palms and catch light. If there is magic in the world, surely this is it: the descendants of tiny creatures in leaves, capable of ingesting the sun.
You danced around my heart,
Giving it a whirl now and then
And dipping it like a tango partner
But never quite holding it close.
Now I’m alone in a ballroom
Cleaning up the dust bunnies
And regarding the unswept floors
That once shined so brightly;
For they are no longer polished
By the tapping of your feet.