The beginner hugs his infant poem to him and does not want it to grow up. But you may have to break your poem to remake it.
Poetry finds its perilous equilibrium somewhere between music and speech.
At any moment solitude may put on the face of loneliness.
Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.
It is always hard to hear the buried truth from another person.
What can I have that I still want?