It Snowed And Snowed, The Whole World

Reshaping Life! People Who Can Say That Have Never Understood A Thing About Life—they Have Never Felt Its Breath, Its Heartbeat—however Much They Have Seen Or Done. They Look On It As A Lump Of Raw Material That Needs To Be Processed By Them, To Be Ennobled By Their Touch. But Life Is Never A Material, A Substance To Be Molded. If You Want To Know, Life Is The Principle Of Self-renewal, It Is Constantly Renewing And Remaking And Changing And Transfiguring Itself, It Is Infinitely Beyond Your Or My Obtuse Theories About It.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

At The Moment Of Childbirth, Every Woman Has The Same Aura Of Isolation, As Though She Were Abandoned, Alone.

We Must Discover Security Within Ourselves.