It's always a surprise and wonderment when our plane breaks through a ceiling of cloud and, as though shedding some huge entangling dress of tattered lace, comes out naked into the naked blue sky and sun.
[The hotel] was vast, concrete and glass. The rainy gulf was what it looked at or glowered at.
Her poem "The Split Level" would be about that; about a woman learning the names of flowers, and thus (she believes) coming closer to nature and really coming closer too, even though by means of the one thing nature doesn't possess of itself, its names.
This grief was something and not nothing, it rose continually to sweep over you, making you sob or cry out unexpectedly, to lose your footing even, like a riptide.
No rain fell that night on the University campus, but the leaves of all the trees, yellow elm and hickory, gray-green ash, coppery oak and beech, seemed to have fallen at once in the night: long wind-combed rows of them moving in the still-restless air, dead souls lifted and tossed on gusts.
She whispered to herself okay, let's go, in that motherly or fatherly way we forever speak to ourselves so that we will do what we should or must.
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