My Cradle Was A Shoe.

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 Will Take With Me The Emptiness Of My Hands. What You Do Not Have You Find Everywhere

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.

Your Absence Has Gone Through Me

I Had Hardly Begun To Read I Asked How Can You Ever Be Sure That What You Write Is Really Any Good At All And He Said You Can't You Can't You Can Never Be Sure You Die Without Knowing Whether Anything You Wrote Was Any Good If You Have To Be Sure Don't Write