To me, the mind seems to be spread out in the whole body - the senses are part of the brain. I guess they're not where the thinking is done.

I was a late bloomer. But anyone who blooms at all, ever, is very lucky.

Writing or making anything-a poem, a bird feeder, a chocolate cake-has self-respect in it. You're working. You're trying. You're not lying down on the ground, having given up.

At one point I took on a new job, and I just didn't have time to do anything but work.

There is something in me maybe someday to be written; now it is folded, and folded, and folded, like a note in school.

When I quit all these things and said I didn't have any time, I meant I didn't have any time.

Many poets write books. They'll tell you: Well, I've got my next book, but there are two poems I need to write, one about x, one about y. This is a wonder to me.