Happy in all that ragged, loose collapse of water, the fountain, its effortless descent and flatteries of spray.

Happy in all that ragged, loose collapse of water, the fountain, its effortless descent and flatteries of spray.

I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certain knack for poetry.

Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.

There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

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?

Odd that a thing is most itself when likened