Winter Garden, The Moon Thinned To A

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

The Moon And Sun Are Travelers Through Eternity. Even The Years Wander On. Whether Drifting Through Life On A Boat Or Climbing Toward Old Age Leading A Horse, Each Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

The Sea Darkens And A Wild Duck S Call Is Faintly White.

The Temple Bell Stops But I Still Hear The Sound Coming Out Of The Flowers.

Learn The Rules, And Then Forget Them.