Wet nights, warm days are what we want in the summer
      noosphere.
Man's mind one with weather.
If this is true, life is good, or will be good.
Can I be encouraged that my sons will find mystery on the
      planet
as I did?

How sweet the slow spring! May already and the canopy
      not out yet.
Woods quiet all winter.
Now I can't distinguish the many bird songs from where I sit.
Red maple flowers and first sugar maple leaves are, to me,
      the Christ child
that's been coming.

The ancient poems and the new make the 1/10 inch of annual
      topsoil
from carbon dioxide loading.
As a humanist I want everyone pursuing happiness; as a
      naturalist
I sometimes pray for man's destruction. As a rationalist I admit
I lack data.

O to play slow and sure, even when the tune is fast. Inside an
      aquifer
of love for the audience.
Not to fear or even necessarily obey the changing wind's
direction. Being here I breathe and make the atmosphere as
      seen
from outer space.

The song of the world will often take you far from yourself.
      There
will be no self. How will you know yourself?
By knowing thyme and dandelion, the blue jay from the hawk,
the heron in its swamp, black cherries and the one pear at the
      junction of the trails.
They are yourself.