Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.
In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.
Live in a perpetual great astonishment.
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
And I rejoiced in being what I was.
I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.