What Is Poetry Which Does Not Save

The Vineyard Country, Russet, Reddish, Carmine-brown In This Season. A Blue Outline Of Hills Above A Fertile Valley. It's Warm As Long As The Sun Does Not Set, In The Shade Cold Returns. A Strong Sauna And Then Swimming In A Pool Surrounded By Trees. Dark Redwoods, Transparent Pale-leved Birches. In Their Delicate Network, A Sliver Of The Moon. I Describe This For I Have Learned To Doubt Philosophy And The Visible World Is All That Remains.

A Day So Happy. Fog Lifted Early. I Worked In The Garden. Hummingbirds Were Stopping Over Honeysuckle Flowers. There Was No Thing On Earth I Wanted To Possess. I Know No One Worth My Envying Him.

It Is Sweet To Think I Was A Companion In An Expedition That Never Ends

When I Die, I Will See The Lining Of The World. The Other Side, Beyond Bird, Mountain, Sunset.

Poetry Is A Dividend From What You Know And What You Are.