Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine

And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. "Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever?

I have a notebook with me all the time, and I begin scribbling a few words. When things are going well, the walk does not get anywhere; I finally just stop and write.

I saw that worrying had come to nothing and gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life. It's an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that.