To Acknowledge The Presence Of Fear Is

I Think I Hate Snow, Downright Hate It. There Is Something Stupefying In It, A Kind Of 'you Must Be Worse Before You're Better,' And Down It Spins.

But The More Poetry One Reads The More One Longs To Read!

Outside The Sky Is Light With Stars

That Is The Fearful Part Of Having Been Near Death. One Knows How Easy It Is To Die. The Barriers That Are Up For Everybody Else Are Down For You, And You've Only To Slip Through.

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.