Poetry is a way of looking at the world for the first time.
You grieve Not that heaven does not exist but That it exists without us
From what we cannot hold the stars are made.
we travel far and fast and as we pass through we forget where we have been
After an age of leaves and feathers someone dead thought of the mountain as money and cut the trees that were here and the wind and the rain at night. It is hard to say it.
I think there's a kind of desperate hope built into poetry that one really wants, hopelessly, to save the world. One is trying to say everything that can be said for the things that one loves while there's still time.