The startling reality of things is my discovery every single day. Every thing is what it is, and it's hard to explain to anyone how much this delights me... And suffice me. To be whole, it is enough simply to exist...

I've written a god many "things"...
I shall write many more, naturally.
Each of my "things" speaks of this,
And yet all my poems are different,
Because each thing that exists is one
way of saying this.

Sometimes I start looking at a leave.
I don't start thinking,
Does it have feeling?
I don't fuss about calling it my friend.
But I get pleasure out of its being a leaves.
Enjoying it because it feels nothing,
Enjoying it because it's not at all related to me.

Occasionally I hear the wind blow,
And I find that just hearing 
the wind blow makes it worth having 
been born...