I never find words right away. Poems for me always begin with images and rhythms, shapes, feelings, forms, dances in the back of my mind.

Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.

Thought is just an apprehension of touch.

Wildness It is perennially within us, dormant as a hard-shelled seed, awaiting the fire or flood that awakes it again.

Place and the scale of space must be measured against our bodies and their capabilities.

Why should the peculiarities of human consciousness be the narrow standard by which other creatures are judged?

My Grandmother standing wordless fifteen minutes Between rows of loganberries, clippers poised in her hand.