In life, the number of beginnings is exactly equal to the number of endings ... In poetry, the number of beginnings so far exceeds the number of endings that we cannot even conceive of it.

We are all one question, and the best answer seems to be love—a connection between things.

In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

Once I witnessed a windstorm so severe two 100-year-old trees were uprooted on the spot. The next day, walking among the wreckage, I found the friable nests of birds, completely intact and unharmed on the ground. That the featherweight survive the massive, that this reversal of fortune takes place among us — that is what haunts me. I don’t know what it means.

The industrial world destroys nature not because it doesn’t love it but because it is not afraid of it.

My happiness is marred only by my failure to attain it.

Poetry is sentimental to begin with. To write a sentimental poem is an act of redundancy.