Frost in January minus 20 for a week. Dead birds frozen on the branch—they fall with the first thaw like ripe fruit—death-ripened. We shall all end like them—just a stain in the snow.

Music is only love looking for words.

Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might purprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough, or patient enough.

It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.

Love joins and then divides. How else would we be growing?

What are stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.