Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.

Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope