I resented my mother for guessing my innermost secrets. She was like God, everywhere at once knowing everything.

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.

A spoken story is larger than one unheard, unsaid. In nearly all creation accounts, words or songs are how the world was created, the animals sung into existence.

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

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.

Mystery is part of each life, and maybe it is healthier to uphold it than to spend a lifetime in search of half-made answers.

Death is dancing me ragged.