Reading Peter Dufault's poetry one feels privileged to have been admitted into the inner circle of a person's presence, placed at the heart of the most secret textures of the physical world, yet guided to a wide-sweeping view where things are seen at a great distance,the land <(falling) away westward, hill/behind hill, immaterial'with distance, azure as air> allowing the < entire blue tumult> to enter our mind, watching new things come into the world. We are given permission to share the gaze of an exceptionally graceful eye, the scrutiny of an exceptionally fine-tuned mind. There is joy there, and pain,love, lust, regret, skepticism, despair, political passion, the full range of human emotions riding the luminous trail of a sharp, unpedantic intellect steeped in the classic metaphors and in history. A voracious hunger for the unasked questions feeds on the smallest aspects of nature. Nothing is too small, nothing too big, nothing too mundane. this is Apollonian poetry at its best. Grace.

I am new to the internet, but wanted Mr. Dufault to know how much I enjoyed the poem MORE SNOW FALLING printed in the New Yorker 4/12/99...Feel he was referring to the snow that leveled many blossom laden branches of our Magnolia tree...the hush of that snowfall and the leveling quiet of eternity were evoked and visited in this memorable moment of time. Thank you for allowing me to revisit..............