The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.

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.

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.

Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.

There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.

Nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness, the deep intelligence living at peace would have.