Two girls discover the secret of life in a sudden line of poetry.

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

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.

Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it.

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

Teachers at all levels encourage the idea that you have to talk about things in order to understand them, because they wouldn't have jobs, otherwise. But it's phony, you know.

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.