All goes back to the earth,and so I do not desirepride of excess or power,but the contentments madeby men who have had little:the fisherman’s silencereceiving the river’s grace,the gardner’s musing on rows. I lack the peace of simple things.I am never wholly in place.I find no peace or grace.We sell the world to buy fire,our way lighted by burning men,and that has bent my mindand made me think of darknessand wish for the dumb life of roots.