Are My Boots Old? Is

I Read The Way A Person Might Swim, To Save His Or Her Life. I Wrote That Way Too.

Who Knows What Will Happen Or Where I Will Be Sent, Yet Already I Have Given A Great Many Things Away, Expecting To Be Told To Pack Nothing, Except The Prayers Which, With This Thirst, I Am Slowly Learning.

If You Suddenly And Unexpectedly Feel Joy, Don’t Hesitate. Give In To It.

I Was Hurrying Through My Own Soul . . . I Was Leaning Out . . . I Was Listening.

Poetry Is A River; Many Voices Travel In It; Poem After Poem Moves Along In The Exciting Crests And Falls Of The River Waves. None Is Timeless; Each Arrives In An Historical Context; Almost Everything, In The End, Passes. But The Desire To Make A Poem, And The World's Willingness To Receive It--indeed The World's Need Of It--these Never Pass.