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.

Revision is not going back and fussing around, but going forward into the process of creation

Is it perhaps the one necessity of love, that it be needed? And the one great human tragedy that it so rarely is?

Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?

in the very long run any success devours - and perhaps also corrupts.

It is a waste of time to see people who have only a social surface to show. I will make every effort to find out the real person, but if I can't, then I am upset and cross. Time wasted is poison.

When one's not writing poems - and I'm not at the moment - you wonder how you ever did it. It's like another country you can't reach.