I’d seen their hoofprints in the deep needles and knew they ended the long night under the pines, walking

Don’t call this world adorable, or… It’s frisky, and a theater for mor… The eyelash of lightning is neithe… The struck tree burns like a pilla… But the blue rain sinks, straight…

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light,

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice—

All winter the water has crashed over the cold the cold sand. Now it breaks over the thin branch of your body.

Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories,

“For example, what the trees do not only in lightning storms or the watery dark of a summer’s n… or under the white nets of winter but now, and now, and now—whenever

I know someone who kisses the way a flower opens, but more rapidly. Flowers are sweet. They have short, beatific lives. They offer much pleasure. There is

There is, all around us, this country of original fire. You know what I mean. The sky, after all, stops at nothi…

centerYou are standing at the edge… at twilight when something begins to sing, like a waterfall pouring down

She steps into the dark swamp where the long wait ends. The secret slippery package drops to the weeds. She leans her long neck and tongue…

In the early curtains of the dusk it flew, a slow galloping this way and that way

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your kn… for a hundred miles through the de… You only have to let the soft anim… love what it loves.

Every morning the world is created. Under the orange sticks of the sun

The first fish I ever caught would not lie down quiet in the pail but flailed and sucked