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?
I was hurrying through my own soul . . . I was leaning out . . . I was listening.
I simply do not distinguish between work and play.
Every day I walk out into the world / to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?
For some things there are no wrong seasons. Which is what I dream of for me.