If you want great tranquility/ It's hard work and a long walk
The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.
How many years have slipped through our hands? At least as many as the constellations we still can identify. The quarter moon, like a light skiff, floats out of the mist-remnants Of last night’s hard rain. It, too, will slip through our fingers with no ripple, without us in it.
All forms of landscape are autobiographical.
November’s a burn and an ache.
Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world. Morning arrives and that's it. Sunlight darkens the earth.