The Night Is Shattered, And

I Grew Up In This Town, My Poetry Was Born Between The Hill And The River, It Took Its Voice From The Rain, And Like The Timber, It Steeped Itself In The Forests.

Poetry Arrived In Search Of Me. I Don't Know, I Don't Know Where It Came From, From Winter Or A River. I Don't Know How Or When.

What Did The Earth Teach The Trees? How To Speak To The Sky.

The Road Made Wet By The Water Of August Shines Like It Was Cut In Full Moonlight

Peace Goes Into The Making Of A Poem As Flour Goes Into The Making Of Bread.