Write From What You Know Into What

This Hill Crossed With Broken Pines And Maples Lumpy With The Burial Mounds Of Uprooted Hemlocks (hurricane Of '38) Out Of Their Rotting Hearts Generations Rise Trying Once More To Become The Forest Just Beyond Them Tall Enough To Be Called Trees In Their Youth Like Aspen A Bouquet Of Young Beech Is Gathered They Still Wear Last Summer's Leaves The Lightest Brown Almost Translucent How Their Stubbornness Has Decorated The Winter Woods.

Just When I Most Needed Important Conversation, A Sniff Of The Man-wide World, That Is, At Least One Brainy Companion Who Could Translate My Friendly Language Into His Tongue Of Undying Carnal Love, I Was Forced To Lounge In Our Neighborhood Park, Surrounded By Children.

It Wasn't Until I Lived In The Countryside That I Began To Understand The Life Of The Countryside And The People In It And Trees And Water. Just Learning About Water Is An Education For A City Person.

Rosiness Is Not A Worse Windowpane Than Gloomy Gray When Viewing The World.

I Know I've Done Good Work. I've Been Very Serious About My Writing, And I've Done The Best That I Could. But I Don't Feel That I've Done More Than I Should Have. In Fact, I've Done Less Than I Should Have.