And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening
is the real work.
Maybe the world, without us,
is the real poem.
...Would it be better to sit in silence?
To think everything, to feel everything, to say nothing?
This is the way of the orange gourd.
This is the habit of the rock in the river, over which
the water pours all night and all day.
But the nature of man is not the nature of silence.
Words are the thunders of the mind.
I've been reading The leaf and the cloud by Mary Oliver, and finding it good going.