Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

I would like to believe when I die that I have given myself away like a tree that sows seed every spring and never counts the loss, because it is not loss, it is adding to future life. It is the tree's way of being. Strongly rooted perhaps, but spilling out its treasure on the wind.

Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.

The minute one utters a certainty, the opposite comes to mind.

This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power of speech) is an enriching state for a writer. Then the written word ... takes on an intensity of its own. Nothing gets exteriorized or dissipated; all is concentrated within.

We cannot afford not to fight for growth and understanding, even when it is painful, as it is bound to be.

Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.