I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.

Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.

Love is not about property, diamonds and gifts. It is about sharing your very self with the world around you.

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.