Deep In Their Roots, All Flowers Keep

A Terrible Violence Of Creation,a Flash Into The Burning Heart Of The Abominable;yet If We Wait, Unafraid, Beyond The Fearful Instant,the Burning Lake Turns Into A Forest Pool,the Fire Subsides Into Rings Of Water,a Sunlit Silence.

And I Walked, I Walked Through The Light Air; I Moved With The Morning.

How Terrible The Need For God.

Art Is The Means We Have Of Undoing The Damage Of Haste. It's What Everything Else Isn't.

A Lively Understandable Spirit Once Entertained You. It Will Come Again. Be Still. Wait.