It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us.
One of the springs of poetry is joy.
The garden is growth and change and that means loss as well as constant new treasures to make up for a few disasters.
I am not ready to die, / But I am learning to trust death / As I have trusted life.
It is dark now. The snow is deep blue and the ocean nearly black. It is time for some music.
When we admit our vulnerability, we include others. If we deny it, we shut them out.