The Memory Of Cumshewa Is

I Made Myself Into An Envelope Into Which I Could Thrust My Work Deep, Lick The Flap, Seal It From Everybody.

If The Air Is Jam-full Of Sounds Which We Tune In With, Why Should It Not Also Be Full Of Feels And Smells And Things Seen Through The Spirit, Drawing Particles From Us To Them And Them To Us Like Magnets?

Twenty Can't Be Expected To Tolerate Sixty In All Things, And Sixty Gets Bored Stiff With Twenty's Eternal Love Affairs.

I Sat Staring, Staring, Staring - Half Lost, Learning A New Language Or Rather The Same Language In A Different Dialect.

Look At The Earth Crowded With Growth, New And Old Bursting From Their Strong Roots Hidden In The Silent, Live Ground, Each Seed According To Its Own Kind...each One Knowing What To Do, Each One Demanding Its Own Rights On The Earth. So Artist, You Too From The Depths Of Your Soul...let Your Roots Creep Forth, Gaining Strength.