Your poems will happen when no one is there.
It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.
Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
Deep down there was understanding, not of the facts of our lives so much as of our essential natures.
Life comes in clusters, clusters of solitude, then a cluster when there is hardly time to breathe.
Go rich in poverty. Go rich in poetry. This nothingness is plentitude.