Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives.
Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem.
A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.
It's morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.
Things take the time they take. don't worry. How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine?
I have trouble with some books because I'm so much in agreement with them I'd rather just sit in the grass myself.