How heron comes It is a negligence of the mind not to notice how at dusk heron comes to the pond and stands there in his death robes, perfect servant of the system, hungry, his eyes full of attention, his wings pure light

I've always wanted to write poems and nothing else.

But how did you come burning down like a wild needle, knowing just where my heart was?

A mind that is lively and inquiring, compassionate, curious, angry, full of music, full of feeling, is a mind full of possible poetry.

I got saved by poetry. And I got saved by the beauty of the world.

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

I don't ask for the sights in front of me to change, only the depth of my seeing.