We Are Not Born To Survive. Only

I Think There's A Kind Of Desperate Hope Built Into Poetry That One Really Wants, Hopelessly, To Save The World. One Is Trying To Say Everything That Can Be Said For The Things That One Loves While There's Still Time.

I Offer You What I Have My Poverty

We Are Not Born To Survive. Only To Live.

This Is What I Have Heard At Last The Wind In December Lashing The Old Trees With Rain Unseen Rain Racing Along The Tiles Under The Moon Wind Rising And Falling Wind With Many Clouds Trees In The Night Wind.

In The Time That I Have Been Acquainted With This Region I Have Become Increasingly Aware Of It As A Testament Of Water, The Origin And Guide Of Its Contours And Gradients And Of All The Lives - The Plants And Small Creatures, And The Culture - That Evolved Here. That Was Always Here To Be Seen, Of Course, And The Recognition Has Forced Itself, In One Form Or Other, Upon People In Every Part Of The World Who Have Been Directly Involved With The Growing Of Living Things. The Gardener Who Ignores It Is Soon Left With No Garden.