Come with me into the woods where spring is advancing, as it does, no matter what, not being singular or particular, but one of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

The dream of my life is to lie down by a slow river and stare at the light in the trees - to learn something by being nothing

Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem.

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.

Walks work for me. I enter some arena that is neither conscious or unconscious.

We can know a lot. And still, no doubt, there are rash and wonderful ideas brewing somewhere; there are many surprises yet to come.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief.