It's a question of trying to take down by dictation what's already there. I'm not making something, I'm trying to hear it.
Wind ought to be a verb or an adverb. It isn't really anything. It's a manner of movement of warmth and cold: a kind of information system of the air.
Spring, when the earth tilts closer to the sun, runs a strict timetable of flowers.
At each moment, a poem might grow into a totally different shape. It is not so much like working in a garden. It is more as if you remade the garden every day.
It's a relief to hear the rain. It's the sound of billions of drops, all equal, all equally committed to falling, like a sudden outbreak of democracy. Water, when it hits the ground, instantly becomes a puddle or rivulet or flood.
I try not to invent; I try simply to translate the weird language of the natural world. And I'm not into absolute ownership of things.
