I began writing poems when I was about eight, with a heavy assist from my mother. She read me Arthur Waley’s translations and Whitman and Robinson Jeffers, who have been lifelong influences on me. My father read Keats to me, and then he read more Keats while I was lying on the sofa struggling with asthma.
He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
I was raised to be a girl Michelangelo.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
As I remember, the first real poem I wrote was about the wheat fields between Spokane and Pullman, to the south.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.
No matter how brief an encounter you have with anybody, you both change.