I go in pilgrimageAcross an old fenced boundaryTo wildness without ageWhere, in their long dominion,The trees have been left free.They call the soil here “Eden”; slants and steepsHard to stand straight uponEven without a burden.No more a perfect garden,There’s an...
Remember,your wordscan plantgardensor burnwhole forests down
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the riversflow in the right direction, will the earth turnas taught, and if not how shallI correct it?Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,can I do better?Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrowscan do it and I...
Our mission is to plant ourselves at the gates of Hope — not the prudent gates of Optimism, which are somewhat narrower; nor the stalwart, boring gates of Common Sense; nor the strident gates of Self-Righteousness, which creak on shrill and angry hinges (people cannot...
As I was lying on a gurney in pre-op awaiting knee replacement surgery three days before Christmas, before the “happy drugs” were administered, I noticed a painting on the wall beside the gurney. It was rather nondescript, a field of blue flowers in a garden of rocks...