A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky

All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.

As the rain falls so does your love bathe every open object of the world