I’m slipping from my skin and turning ghost. Poetry is dead, and poets are the walking wounded in a mad-cracked world. (From the book Wilderness & Love )
A nature-filled weekend in Knoxville: male frogs and toads vocalizing for the ladies; woodcocks in courtship flights beneath the clouds and stars; a gorgeous Fox Sparrow amid a flush of juncos; fresh layers of sun on swelling tree buds; hepatica blooming on a woodland hill; the air an arrived exhalation of the coming spring.