I Want To Write Poems That Are

I Associate The Garden With The Whole Experience Of Being Alive, And So, There Is Nothing In The Range Of Human Experience That Is Separate From What The Garden Can Signify In Its Eagerness And Its Insistence, And In Its Driving Energy To Live -- To Grow, To Bear Fruit.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

End With An Image And Don't Explain.