He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?

You must not ever stop being whimsical.

it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.

It's not a competition, it's a doorway.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force.

I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It's impossible not to remember wild an want it back.