The Pitcher Cries For Water

Attention Is Love, What We Must Give Children, Mothers, Fathers, Pets, Our Friends, The News, The Woes Of Others. What We Want To Change We Curse And Then Pick Up A Tool. Bless Whatever You Can With Eyes And Hands And Tongue. If You Can't Bless It, Get Ready To Make It New.

In Her Bottled Up Is A Woman Peppery As Curry, A Yam Of A Woman Of Butter And Brass.

I Don't Think Writers Change The Past Any More Than Other People Do, Except In So Far As We May Mine Our Lives And Change Things For Fictional Use.

I Don't Even Remember What Mother And I Quarreled About: It Is A Continual Quarrel That Began When I Reached Puberty.

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.