There is something in spontaneous being
 that defies analysis.

That analysis, set apart from spontaneous being,
 searches for cheating rules
 when, without rules, being one’s self
  is not the rule, but simply the way.

One sells one’s self short
 attempting to package one’s self
 into something that fits
 when fitting is supposed to be the substance.

The broad expanse of the self,
 the contemporality of the self
 is that most precious elixir of the self
 we fain would capture if we could
  without denying its essence.

So much beautiful wild
            my little

A certain inner peace,
 quite safe and pleased with herself,
 wherein there is a certain
  knowing of the world
 whereby
  wherever she alights upon the world
  that same pleasant fastidiousness
  whereupon she chuckles with herself
   she chuckles with her acquaintance
 wherewith the unknown and uncouth
  are handily known and tamed:

   a traveling tea party

Art is a gift,
   something intricate —
oh, stark
   something.