My bones whisper to my blood; my sleep deceives me. - Theodore Roethke

Your words are you. You are them and not much more. The Description: the fieldness of fields, the weediness of weeds… When is description mere? Never. A freshness in the seeing, an innocency in the vision, the angle of perception, the bringing together of details, not necessarily as metaphors, even, just as objects. Be one of those on whom, as Lawrence said, nothing is lost. Don’t strain for arrangement. Look and put it down and let your sensibility be the sieve.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

Necessity starves on the stoop of invention.