You start sometimes without knowing what you're doing, or even what material you have. Frost in early November means nothing to a potato.
It is hard to accept that needing to see stars every morning is as addictive as whiskey once was. Jesus maintains a steady presence, reachable but not always responsive, not the way one wants anyway.
The female cardinal, that dusky fire. Chickadees, their tiny hearts like invisible sparks against the swiftly gathering cold.
In my dream I was writing and slowly the writing became this writing. Nobody is watching.
God, like democracy, is a good idea that is challenging in application. This is why so many scientists annoy me.
It was Dylan's melodic phase, which is an interesting way to think about it. Could I, if I chose to, write songs again?
One turns it over only to learn that they were still holding a big chunk back. It's a process, awakening, not just a word.
Those poor Irish boys, first executed, then denied burial. Yet for some reason I persist in admiring the entire nineteenth century.
One takes note of that which takes note of the sentence. One forgives dancing, one wakes from dreams into new dreams and shrugs as if to say, what else did you expect?
What else is there but to "keep on keeping on?" Faced as always with bells that do not ring.