There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.

Looking, Walking, Being, I look and look. Looking's a way of being: one becomes, sometimes, a pair of eyes walking. Walking wherever looking takes one. The eyes dig and burrow into the world. They touch, fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamor. World and the past of it, not only visible present, solid and shadow that looks at one looking. And language? Rhythms of echo and interruption? That's a way of breathing. breathing to sustain looking, walking and looking, through the world, in it.

If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening.

Very few people really see things unless they've had someone in early life who made them look at things. And name them too. But the looking is primary, the focus.

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

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

There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.