There is this cave In the air behind my body That nobody is going to touch: A cloister, a silence Closing around a blossom of fire. When I stand upright in the wind, My bones turn to dark emeralds.

In a pine tree,/ A few yards from my window sill,/ A brilliant blue jay is springing up and down, up and/ down./ On a branch./ I laugh, as I see him abandon himself/ To entire delight, for he knows as well as I do/ That the branch will not break.

Poetry can keep life itself alive. You can endure almost anything as long as you can sing about it.

Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

Look: I am nothing. I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.

Practice good personal hygiene. Wash your hands before you eat. Be aware of good clean water and food sources.

It goes without saying that a fine short poem can have the resonance and depth of an entire novel.