We are defined by how we place our attention.

We humans are obsessed with lights...Perhaps it is our way of hurling the constellations back at the sky.

Symbolic of life, hair bolts from our head[s]. Like the earth, it can be harvested, but it will rise again. We can change its color and texture when the mood strikes us, but in time it will return to its original form, just as Nature will in time turn our precisely laid-out cities into a weed-way.

Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.

Because poets feel what we're afraid to feel, venture where we're reluctant to go, we learn from their journeys without taking the same dramatic risks.

Everyone admits that love is wonderful and necessary, yet no one agrees on just what it is.

I like handling newborn animals. Fallen into life from an unmappable world, they are the ultimate immigrants, full of wonder and confusion.