Trees Are Poems That The

Verily All Things Move Within Your Being In Constant Half Embrace, The Desired And The Dreaded, The Repugnant And The Cherished, The Pursued And That Which You Would Escape.

A Root Is A Flower That Disdains Fame.

If Aught I Have Said Is Truth, That Truth Shall Reveal Itself In A Clearer Voice, And In Words More Kin To Your Thoughts.

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

You Have Your Ideology And I Have Mine.