“[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . . ”

Coming into eighty
I slow my ship down
For a safe landing.

There is a thin glass
Between me and everything I see.
The glass is pain.

Becoming eighty
Might be nothing much
If I could be well,

For a while I shall still be leaving.
Looking back at you as you slip away
Into the magic islands of the mind.

Yes, I am home again, and alone.
Today wrote letters, then took my dog
Out through the sad November woods.

What follows are the authors’ discussions on the first stirrings, the germination of a poem, or a work of fiction. Any number of headings would be appropriate: Beginnings, The Starting Point, etc. Inspiration would be as good as any.