One could go on revising a prose page forever whereas there is a point in a poem when one knows it is done forever.

It always comes back to the same necessity: go deep enough and there is a bedrock of truth, however hard.

Read between the lines.Then meet me in the silence if you can.

When I am alone the flowers are really seen; I can pay attention to them. They are felt as presences. Without them I would die...they change before my eyes. They live and die in a few days; they keep me closely in touch with the process, with growth, and also with dying. I am floated on their moments.

Your poems will happen when no one is there.

The price of being oneself is so high and involves so much ruthlessness toward others (or what looks like ruthlessness in our duty-bound culture) that very few people can afford it.

I think that passion if really intense is always destructive if not to the two involved, always to other people.