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.

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

Things take the time they take. Don't worry.

I read the way a person might swim, to save his or her life. I wrote that way too.

Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.

Today I am altogether without ambition. Where did I get such wisdom?

My work is the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird - equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.