Sometimes I think you are absolutely right. Your
  rightness comes to me like the absoluteness
of God. I am vouchsafed the sudden glory
  of your being, unequivocally, as if your body
were pure intelligence there confronting me
  in naked indeterminacy in the afternoon.
Other times I think you’re nuts. What are these
  inflamed and torpid hieroglyphics coming
out of your mouth? Why don’t you go away and
  think it over? I meditate on this more or less
continuously as I look out across the broad and rolling
  Stockbridge Valley, the farms there, the
remarkably individual fields in all their shapes,
  all their colors, loam, hay, corn, alfalfa,
and the woodlots green or gray as the months
  evolve before me. Permanence and change,
so evident in our lives, so mysterious, and still
  so natural. You love me. I love you.