How fragile we are, between the few good moments.

Time ... brings us everything we have and are, then comes with a back-loader and starts taking it all away.

Poetry's task is to increase the available stock of reality, R P Blackmur said.

This garden is no metaphor - more a task that swallows you into itself, earth using, as always, everything it can.

If truth is the lure, humans are fishes.

Isn't the small and common the field we live our life in? The large comes into a life through small-paned windows. A breath is small, but everything depends on it. A person looks at you a single, brief moment longer than is necessary, and everything is changed. The smaller the clue, the larger the meaning, it sometimes feels.

Existence itself is nothing if not an amazement. Good poems restore amazement.