A pen went scribbling along. When it tried to write love, it broke.

Be with those who help your being.

Everything you possess of skill, and wealth, and handicraft, wasn't it first merely a thought and a quest?

With life as short as a half-taken breath, don't plant anything but love.

At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face against mine. Breathe into me. Close the language-door and open the love-window. The moon won't use the door, only the window.

Study me as much as you like, you will not know me, for I differ in a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see.

If these poems repeat themselves, then so does Spring.