Who do you want to be in your one wild and precious life?

Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, Stay awhile.

Writing a poem ... is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind.

I stood willingly and gladly in the characters of everything - other people, trees, clouds. And this is what I learned, that the world's otherness is antidote to confusion - that standing within this otherness - the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books - can re-dignify the worst-stung heart.

Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?

Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives.

I have a notion that if you are going to be spiritually curious, you better not get cluttered up with too many material things.