One Must Be Drenched In Words, Literally

And So She Comes To Dream Herself The Tree, The Wind Possessing Her, Weaving Her Young Veins, Holding Her To The Sky And Its Quick Blue, Drowning The Fever Of Her Hands In Sunlight. She Has No Memory, Nor Fear, Nor Hope Beyond The Grass And Shadows At Her Feet.

And I Have Been Able To Give Freedom And Life Which Was Acknowledged In The Ecstasy Of Walking Hand In Hand Across The Most Beautiful Bridge Of The World, The Cables Enclosing Us And Pulling Us Upward In Such A Dance As I Have Never Walked And Never Can Walk With Another.

One Must Be Drenched In Words, Literally Soaked In Them, To Have The Right Ones Form Themselves Into The Proper Pattern At The Right Moment.

There Are Several More Careers More Engaging To Follow Than That Of Poetry. But The Circumstances Of One's Birth, The Conduct Of One's Parents, The Current Economic Structure Of Society, And A Thousand Other Local Factors Have As Much Or More To Say About Successions To Such Occupations, The Naive Volitions Of The Poet To The Contrary.

I Can Remember Much Forgetfulness.