I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.
I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.
Time marks us while we are marking time.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.
What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?