Lightly, lightly, very lightly a very light wind passes, and it goes away just as lightly, and I don't know what I'm thinking, nor do I wish to know...

I don't worry about rhyme.
Two trees,
One next to the other,
Are rarely identical.
I think and write the way flowers have color,
But how I express myself is less perfect,
For I lack the divine simplicity
Of being only outer self.

I look and I am moved,
I am moved the way water flows
When the ground slopes,
And my poetry and novels
Is natural like the stirring of the wind...