I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside.

The form of free verse is as binding and as liberating as the form of a rondeau.

Every now and then I meet someone certain of personal greatness. I want to pat this person on the shoulder and mutter comforting words: "Things will get better! You won't always feel so depressed! Cheer up!"

Words seem like drops of water in a stream that has its own wholeness and its own motion.

To desire to write poems that endure-we undertake such a goal certain of two things: that in all likelihood we will fail, and if we succeed we will never know it

Opposites are attracted when each one is anxious about its own character.

Today when I begin writing I’m aware: something that I don’t understand drives this engine.