Love Is Not Love Until Love's Vulnerable.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

I Wish I Could Find An Event That Meant As Much As Simple Seeing.

Deep In Their Roots, All Flowers Keep The Light.

Love Begets Love. This Torment Is My Joy.

A Lively Understandable Spirit Once Entertained You. It Will Come Again. Be Still. Wait.