We must breathe time as fishes breathe water.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

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.

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.

I'll dig in into my days, having come here to live, not to visit. Grey is the price of neighboring with eagles, of knowing a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.

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

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