Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace.
Routine is not a prison, but the way into freedom from time.
It is dark now. The snow is deep blue and the ocean nearly black. It is time for some music.
I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.
Flowers and plants are silent presences. They nourish every sense except the ear.
Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.