Be What You Are. Give What Is

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness Alive Inside Him.

An Old Poet Ought Never To Be Caught With His Technique Showing.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.