More or less sound of mind and memory, I venture this testament. 1 To the poets, in the perfect pitch of your dangerous music, I bequeath the fiber of quench and gravel, slush and splinter, ratchet, forage and fizz. And though you will face the welter of blizzard, tussle, and brawl, the scud of umbrage, rankle, and jeer, I leave you the spell of periwinkle, condor, daffodil, velvet, trickle, rapture, and pine. Even in the wasteland of writer's block and the quicksand of murderous deadlines, you will find them sprouting up somewhere in sunshine: impudent, racy, passionate, irresistible. Gather them in with pleasure. 2 To the lovers, in the blooming of each new moment, I hereby bequeath a lifetime of honor and cherish. I endow you with a glimpse of forsythia, the shimmer of silk on a chair back, the smell of bakeries at sunrise, the secrets of sparrows. And because there will be detours and chuckholes, fields of nettles, and weeks of freezing rain, I leave you my vested interest in maple trees, jonquils, coral, and amber, the flavour of raspberries, a taste of skin, and yells of joy in troubled skies – all of it for worse, for better. In witness whereof, this day I set my hand – and hope.