Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.

What's lightly hid is deepest understood.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?

Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.

Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.