The sharp-edged, glittering tens, the hours with locks on them; the hard twenties; the easing thirties; the fretful forties; the fifties, occasional hours of hope and promise, holding on. Now, the sixties.

[Poetry doesn’t explain – oh gruesome aging! – ID]

And I would like to be simple and devout, like the oak tree.

[The poet uses simile and metafor, so she can explain without explaining – ID]

And to tell the truth, sometimes I would like to be able to bark like a dog, to whistle like the meadowlark, to play a little banjo, like the frog in the summer pond.

[She uses dreams – ID]

Said M. in her sleep, ‘I want more money.’ Or was it, ‘I want more honey’?

[of others – ID]

The ants rush toward sweetness. I take away the melon, but first I spill a little melon juice on the counter.

[De dichter verknoeit wat ‘sweetness of nature’ op de pagina voordat ze terugkeert naar huishoudelijke taken. The artist travels back and forth, duizend keer per uur – ID]

Writing is only writing. The accomplishments of courage and tenderness are not to be measured by paragraphs.

[Art is short, life is shorter – ID]

I said to the grasshopper bounding along the road – how excellent you are at what you do!

The snapping turtle wore the most horrifying face I have ever seen, yet she seemed to be enjoying the warmth of the sun, as thoroughly as the household cat.

[Dichten betekent je wereldbeeld verkopen, je filosofie verpakken – ID]

Twice in my life, not once, I have heard the wild wood duck call her hatchlings down from the tree nest. God is lavish.

The fur behind the mouse’s ear stuns the finger with its softness.

[Lezen is wachten op het moment dat je hart een sprongetje maakt: Mobi heeft ook zo’n plekje achter haar oor, ze wil dat ik daar kriebel, en door het kriebelen wordt de zachte vacht zachter, als in een kerk waar al duizenden pelgrims arriveerden om over de knop te wrijven en iets buiten henzelf te aanbidden – ID]

When in the distance the town clock tapped out its brief news – Ah, three o’clock, I thought involuntarily, and felt one or two grains of my spirit die.

Today I saw the veery, up in the shadows, twirling his harp-whistle.

What would it be like to live one whole day as a Ruskin sentence, wandering like a creek with little comma bridges?

Long life (2004), Mary Oliver