Writing Free Verse Is Like Playing Tennis

Our Very Life Depends On Everything's Recurring Till We Answer From Within.

Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation.

(soft Petals, Yes, But Not So Barren Quite, Mingled With These, Smooth Bean And Wrinkled Pea;) And Go Along With You Ere You Lose Sight Of What You Came For And Become Like Me, Slave To A Springtime Passion For The Earth. How Love Burns Through The Putting In The Seed On Through The Watching For That Early Birth When, Just As The Soil Tarnishes With Weed, The Sturdy Seedling With Arched Body Comes Shouldering Its Way And Shedding The Earth Crumbs.

And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.

Now Close The Windows And Hush All The Fields: If The Trees Must, Let Them Silently Toss.