Deep In Their Roots, All Flowers Keep

Wake The Happy Words.

Art Is The Means We Have Of Undoing The Damage Of Haste. It's What Everything Else Isn't.

The Poet: Would Rather Eat A Heart Than A Hambone.

The Stones Were Sharp, The Wind Came At My Back; Walking Along The Highway, Mincing Like A Cat.

All Finite Things Reveal Infinitude: The Mountain With Its Singular Bright Shade Like The Blue Shine On Freshly Frozen Snow, The After-light Upon Ice-burdened Pines; Odor Of Basswood Upon A Mountain Slope, A Scene Beloved Of Bees; Silence Of Water Above A Sunken Tree: The Pure Serene Of Memory Of One Man,- A Ripple Widening From A Single Stone Winding Around The Waters Of The World.