Valor Is A Gift. Those Having It

And How Should A Beautiful, Ignorant Stream Of Water Know It Heads For An Early Release — Out Across The Desert, Running Toward The Gulf, Below Sea Level, To Murmur Its Lullaby, And See The Imperial Valley Rise Out Of Burning Sand With Cotton Blossoms, Wheat, Watermelons, Roses, How Should It Know?

Poetry Is A Theorem Of A Yellow-silk Handkerchief Knotted With Riddles, Sealed In A Balloon Tied To The Tail Of A Kite Flying In A White Wind Against A Blue Sky In Spring.

The Single Clenched Fist Lifted And Ready, Or The Open Asking Hand Held Out And Waiting. Choose: For We Meet By One Or The Other.

In The Night The Cabbages Catch At The Moon, The Leaves Drip Silver, The Rows Of Cabbages Are A Series Of Little Silver Waterfalls In The Moon.

Who Am I, Where Have I Been, And Where Am I Going?