The Writer’s Almanac tells me that today is poet Pablo Neruda’s birthday, in 1904. (His first book was called Crepusculario [Twilight], ha.)

Here’s some Neruda to start the week–it reminds me of going to see the lava and the ocean in Hawaii:

“It is Born” (trans. by Joel Gallo)

Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying,
everything is absorbed through weather and the sea,
and the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue again like morning