Also I wanted to be able to love And we all know how that one goes, don't we? Slowly

A poet's interest in craft never fades, of course.

What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?

Sometimes I spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree... Of course I have to give up, but by then I'm half crazy with the wonder of it--the abundance of the leaves, the quietness of the branches, the hopelessness of my effort. And I am in that delicious and important place, roaring with laughter, full of earth-praise.

The end of life has its own nature, also worth our attention.

Attention is the beginning of devotion.

I climb, I backtrack. I float. I ramble my way home.