Hungry for beautiful words, the fox comes rooting around in the hedge, almost too close to the fire. He reads my mind with one glance and is gone. All my poetry is now trotting around the bushes inside him, maybe some day to be partly eaten or left to rot. He understands being alive for as long as he can be, and does not worry about why, or what might happen afterwards.

Fly (poem from the book Blue Bridge)Delicate, / butterfly winged, / we vainly push against the sky, / each trying to find our place.Yes, we are going to die, / let's not beat about the bush. / Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, / maybe even years from now. Meanwhile, / we have someone who loves us, / someone to love. / Surely there is no need to hesitate.

... as we travel again between life and death, Waking and dream, blinking, while layers within layers,None better, none worse, unravel and knit up before us . . .

Mist lies over the river like the icy breath of winter angels. Darkness gathers round... and it is beautiful.Thank you for this life, this death, whatever it is you arethat makes us finally see.