What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?
It is what I was born for - to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world - to instruct myself over and over.
Every word is a messenger. Some have wings; some are filled with fire; some are filled with death.
Look, hasn't my body already felt like the body of a flower?
A poet's interest in craft never fades, of course.
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.