Poetry is the dark side of the moon.

It may not be written in any book, but it is written - You can't go back, you can't repeat the unrepeatable.

It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.

All forms of landscape are autobiographical.

How many times can summer turn to fall in one life?

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.

What makes us leave what we love best? What is it inside us that keeps erasing itself When we need it most, That sends us into uncertainty for its own sake And holds us flush there until we begin to love it And have to begin again? What is it within our own lives we decline to live Whenever we find it, making our days unendurable, And nights almost visionless? I still don't know yet, but I do it.