And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.

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.

To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.