One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is "Whatever you do, don't be boring."

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

O starry night, This is how I want to die

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.