When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.

it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.

Isn’t it wonderful the way the world holds both the deeply serious, and the unexpectedly mirthful?

And there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea — some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wild—they are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so, dear sorrow, are you.

I worked probably 25 years by myself, just writing and working, not trying to publish much, not giving readings.

I took one look and fell, hook and tumble.

People want poetry. They need poetry. They get it. They don't want fancy work.