Tell Me, What Is It You Plan

I Want To Believe I Am Looking Into The White Fire Of A Great Mystery.

What Can We Do But Keep On Breathing In And Out, Modest And Willing, And In Our Places?

Oh, To Love What Is Lovely, And Will Not Last! What A Task To Ask Of Anything, Or Anyone, Yet It Is Ours, And Not By The Century Or The Year, But By The Hours.

Around Me The Trees Stir In Their Leaves And Call Out, Stay Awhile.

Poetry Is One Of The Ancient Arts, And It Began, As Did All The Fine Arts, Within The Original Wilderness Of The Earth. Also, It Began Through The Process Of Seeing, And Feeling, And Hearing, And Smelling, And Touching, And Then Remembering--i Mean Remembering In Words--what These Perceptual Experiences Were Like, While Trying To Describe The Endless Invisible Fears And Desires Of Our Inner Lives.