And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold- but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and all because I was steadfast about one or two things: loving foxes, and poems, the blank piece of paper, and my own energy- and mostly the shimmering shoulders of the world that shrug carelessly over the fate of any individual that they may, the better, keep the Niles and Amazons flowing.

You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn't need any more of that sound.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine

I don't know lots of things but I know this: next year when spring flows over the starting point I'll think I'm going to drown in the shimmering miles of it.

It's not a competition, it's a doorway.

Joy is not made to be a crumb. (Don't Hesitate)

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief.