I Think It Will Be A Miracle

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

The Summer Has Seized You, As When, Last Month In Amalfi, I Saw Lemons As Large As Your Desk-side Globe-that Miniature Map Of The World-and I Could Mention, Too, The Market Stalls Of Mushrooms And Garlic Bugs All Engorged. Or I Even Think Of The Orchard Next Door, Where The Berries Are Done And The Apples Are Beginning To Swell. And Once, With Our First Backyard,i Remember I Planted An Acre Of Yellow Beans We Couldn't Eat.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

Loving Me With My Shoes Off Means Loving My Long Brown Legs, Sweet Dears, As Good As Spoons; And My Feet, Those Two Children Let Out To Play Naked.

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.