We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.

Hands make the world each day.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.

with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.