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Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheets and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a hand was there.
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I've fallen in love with Winter, with a Viennese septet, with summer.
With village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed
Kept a calender cult, declared promises irrevocable,
Bowed before something, was pious to a nothing.
( -to a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper),
Fearless in religion, for our bed was the church.
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From my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting.
From my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbours.
By the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on it's deepest hue.
The ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.
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It's not you I've lost,
but the world.

Ingeborg Bachmann.