[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . .

Wrinkles here and there seem unimportant compared to the Gestalt of the whole person I have become in this past year.

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.

And I refuse to feel guilty about not letter-writing either. There are times when one can, times when one can't. In the times when an enormous amount of living is going on, one can't.

The garden is growth and change and that means loss as well as constant new treasures to make up for a few disasters.

One of the springs of poetry is joy.

I am furious at all the letters to answer, when all I want to do is think and write poems. ... I long for open time, with no obligations except toward the inner world and what is going on there.