In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I open eyes and heart to illumination. I must still grow in the dark like a root not ready, not ready at all.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.

Both art and faith are dependent on imagination; both are ventures into the unknown.

But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

I'm not very good at praying, but what I experience when I'm writing a poem is close to prayer.

One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language.