Teach as an old fishing guide takes out a beginner.

The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.

How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.

I'm sure I've been a toad, one time or another. With bats, weasels, worms...I rejoice in the kinship. Even the caterpillar I can love, and the various vermin.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

Teach as an old fishing guide takes out a beginner.

The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.