A great poet does not express his or her self; he expresses all of our selves.
Grandfather Space. The Mind is his Wife
Burning the small dead branches broke from beneath thick spreading whitebark pine. A hundred summers snowmelt rock and air hiss in a twisted bough.
I thought, that day I started, I sure would hate to do this all my life, And dammit, thatโs just what Iโve gone and done.
Wildness is not just the "preservation of the world," it is the world
You run into people who want to write poetry who don't want to read anything in the tradition. That's like wanting to be a builder but not finding out what different kinds of wood you use.