Every day, every day I hear enough to fill a year of nights with wondering.

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

In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.

Writing poetry is a process of discovery...you can smell the poem before you see it....Like some animal.

Yes, he is here in this open field, in sunlight, among the few young trees set out to modify the bare facts-- he's here, but only because we are here. When we go, he goes with us to be your hands that never do violence, your eyes that wonder, your lives that daily praise life by living it, by laughter. He is never alone here, never cold in the field of graves.

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

What I heard was my whole self saying and singing what it knew: I can.