Well, I’ll never write the poem about the foal, its long beautiful nose seeking out, for the first time, the smells of its new world. No, nor the sailing poem, the wind and the wild dipping, skimming the deep, the thrill of almost going down, going deep forever. No, mine is the poem of lying in bed, of a foot rub given while we watch spiders spin against the window pane, spin and drift on the perilous thin silks of paths almost invisible to us, paths far beyond our knowing, oh far beyond the desperate heart and all its longing.