Poetry has its own laws speaking for the life of the planet. It is a language that wants to bring back together what the other words have torn apart.

Poetry is a string of words that parades without a permit.

There is a language beyond human language, an elemental language, one that arises from the land itself.

A woman once described a friend of hers as being such a keen listener that even the trees leaned toward her, as if they were speaking their innermost secrets into her listening ears. Over the years I’ve envisioned that woman’s silence, a hearing full and open enough that the world told her its stories. The green leaves turned toward her, whispering tales of soft breezes and the murmurs of leaf against leaf.

We make art out of our loss.

Telling about our lives is important for those who come after as, for those who will see our experience as part of their own historical struggle.

There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story.