We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.

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

You have come to the shore. There are no instructions.

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

Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; caps and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, 0 Lord, Creator, Hallowed one, You still, hour by hour sustain it.

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

I thought I was growing wings— it was a cocoon. I thought, now is the time to step into the fire— it was deep water. Eschatology is a word I learned as a child: the study of Last Things; facing my mirror—no longer young, the news—always of death, the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoring and howling, howling.... ("Seeing For a Moment")