Obviously a garden is not the wilderness but an assembly of shapes, most of them living, that owes some share of its composition, it’s appearance, to human design and effort, human conventions and convenience, and the human pursuit of that elusive, indefinable harmony that we call beauty. It has a life of its own, an intricate, willful, secret life, as any gardener knows. It is only the humans in it who think of it as a garden. But a garden is a relationship, which is one of the countless reasons why it is never finished.

come back believer in shade believer in silence and elegance believer in ferns believer in patience believer in the rain

To succeed [,] consider what is as though it were past, deem yourself inevitable and take credit for it. If you no longer believe, enlarge the temple.

Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

I also think that life itself is both indifferent to us and the source of all of our joys and everything that we love. And it's necessary to accept the one in order to love the other.

I wouldn't be happy about being considered a love poet or an environmental - I don't want any of those tags.

I needed my mistakes in their order to get me here