It is fatal to one's artistic life to talk about something that is in process.

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

But we have only begun to love the earth. We have only begun to imagine the fullness of life. How could we tire of hope?-so much is in bud.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.

You can live for years next door to a big pine tree, honored to have so venerable a neighbor, even when it sheds needles all over your flowers or wakes you, dropping big cones onto your deck at still of night.

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.