Poetry Is A Way Of Looking At

Sitting Over Words Very Late I Have Heard A Kind Of Whispered Sighing Not Far Like A Night Wind In Pines Or Like The Sea In The Dark The Echo Of Everything That Has Ever Been Spoken Still Spinning Its One Syllable Between The Earth And Silence.

The Story Of Each Stone Leads Back To A Mountain.

We Are Asleep With Compasses In Our Hands.

There Are Aspects Of Human Life That Are Not Purely Destructive, And There Is A Need To Pay Attention To The Things Around Us While They Are Still Around Us. And You Know, In A Way, If You Don't Pay That Attention, The Anger Is Just Bitterness.

Your Absence Has Gone Through Me