By what are you saved?And how? Saved like a bit of string, tucked away in a drawer? Saved like a child rushed from a burning building, already singed and coughing smoke? Or are you salvaged like a car part—the one good door when the rest is wrecked? Do you believe me when I say you are neither...

Where will you go home? These mountains cannot receive you, and there is no cave or grave to be dug for you in your old hills. And still a current of air keeps singing home . . . home as if that meant something you could go to, as if something could finally stand still. Turn then, and keep turning.

What a gathering—the purple tongues of iris licking out at spikes of lupine, the orange crepe skirts of poppies lifting over buttercup and daisy. Who can be grim in the face of such abundance? There is nothing to compare, no need for beauty to compete. The voluptuous rhododendron and the plain...

The universe does not revolve around you. The stars and planets spinning through the ballroom of space dance with one another quite outside of your small life. You cannot hold gravity or seasons; even air and water inevitably evade your grasp. Why not, then, let go?...