There is a way of beholding nature which is a form of prayer, a way of minding something with such clarity and aliveness that the rest of the world recedes. It . . . gives the brain a small vacation.

Poetry is an act of distillation. It takes contingency samples, is selective. It telescopes time. It focuses what most often floods past us in a polite blur.

Hurricane season brings a humbling reminder that, despite our technologies, most of nature remains unpredictable.

In the absence of touching and being touched, people of all ages can sicken and grow touched starved. Touch seems to be as essential as sunlight.

The heart is a museum, filled with the exhibits of a lifetime's loves.

the biggest threat to the religious experience may well come from organized religion itself.

I hate the fearful trimming of possibilities that age brings.