Take The Time To Write. You Can

One May Prefer Spring And Summer To Autumn And Winter, But Preference Is Hardly To The Point. The Earth Turns, And We Live In The Grain Of Nature, Turning With It.

Images Are Not Quite Ideas, They Are Stiller Than That, With Less Implication Outside Themselves. And They Are Not Myth, They Do Not Have The Explanatory Power; They Are Nearer To Pure Story. Nor Are They Always Metaphors; They Do Not Say This Is That, They Say This Is.

The Birds Are Silent In The Woods. / Just Wait: Soon Enough / You Will Be Quiet Too

I Am Talking About Poetry. It's Like That Line From [john] Yeats: I Go Back To "where All The Ladders Start/ In The Foul Rag And Bone Shop Of The Heart."

After A While I Understood That, Talking This Way, Everything Dissolves: Justice, Pine, Hair, Woman, You And I. There Was A Woman I Made Love To And I Remembered How, Holding Her Small Shoulders In My Hands Sometimes, I Felt A Violent Wonder At Her Presence Like A Thirst For Salt, For My Childhood River With Its Island Willows, Silly Music From The Pleasure Boat, Muddy Places Where We Caught The Little Orange-silver Fish Called Pumpkinseed. It Hardly Had To Do With Her. Longing, We Say, Because Desire Is Full Of Endless Distances.