The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
Poetry is a means of redemption.
All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.