I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery.

In your hands The dog, the donkey, surely they know They are alive. Who would argue otherwise? But now, after years of consideration, I am getting beyond that. What about the sunflowers? What about The tulips, and the pines? Listen, all you have to do is start and There’ll be no stopping. What about mountains? What about water Slipping over rocks? And speaking of stones, what about The little ones you can Hold in your hands, their heartbeats So secret, so hidden it may take years Before, finally, you hear them?

Music: what so many sentences aspire to be.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

It is what I was born for - to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world - to instruct myself over and over.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers. Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. (from “Mysteries, Yes”)

... the natural world is the old river that runs through everything, and I think poets will forever fish along its shores.