I Offer You What I Have My

This Is What I Have Heard At Last The Wind In December Lashing The Old Trees With Rain Unseen Rain Racing Along The Tiles Under The Moon Wind Rising And Falling Wind With Many Clouds Trees In The Night Wind.

Obviously A Garden Is Not The Wilderness But An Assembly Of Shapes, Most Of Them Living, That Owes Some Share Of Its Composition, It’s Appearance, To Human Design And Effort, Human Conventions And Convenience, And The Human Pursuit Of That Elusive, Indefinable Harmony That We Call Beauty. It Has A Life Of Its Own, An Intricate, Willful, Secret Life, As Any Gardener Knows. It Is Only The Humans In It Who Think Of It As A Garden. But A Garden Is A Relationship, Which Is One Of The Countless Reasons Why It Is Never Finished.

I Also Think That Life Itself Is Both Indifferent To Us And The Source Of All Of Our Joys And Everything That We Love. And It's Necessary To Accept The One In Order To Love The Other.

Certain Words Now In Our Knowledge We Will Not Use Again, And We Will Never Forget Them. We Need Them. Like The Back Of The Picture.

I Think There's A Kind Of Desperate Hope Built Into Poetry That One Really Wants, Hopelessly, To Save The World. One Is Trying To Say Everything That Can Be Said For The Things That One Loves While There's Still Time.