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.

Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember nothing stays the same for long, not even pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.

Love is our human miracle.

letters are so much easier than living. One can give one's best.

Try making a poem as if it were a table, clear and solid, standing there outside you.

A body without bones would be a limp impossible mess, so a day without steady routine would be disruptive and chaotic.

Do I think there's life after death? No, I think my books are my life after death.