“All forests have their own personality. I don't just mean the obvious differences, like how an English woodland is different from a Central American rain forest, or comparing tracts of West Coast redwoods to the saguaro forests of the American Southwest... they each have their own gossip, their own sound, their own rustling whispers and smells. A voice speaks up when you enter their acres that can't be mistaken for one you'd hear anyplace else, a voice true to those particular tress, individual rather than of their species.”

“Get excited and enthusiastic about your own dream. This excitement is like a forest fire – you can smell it, taste it, and see it from a mile away.”

“If you could see yourself, hear your own voice, your music. . you wouldn't see darkness. . you'd see an illumination that is all your own. . light and beauty come together in you in a thousand different patterns.”

“Lik the tree falling in the forest," says Ira."Huh?""You know, the old question - if a tree falls in a forest and no one's there to hear it, does it really make a sound?" Howie considers this. "Is it a pine forest, or oak?""What's the difference?""Oak is a much denser wood; it's more likely to be heard by someone on the freeway next to the forest where no one is.”

“The American identity has never been a singular one and the voices of poets invariably sing, in addition to their own, the voices of those around them.”

“I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.”