Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

God owns heaven but He craves the earth.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

Mood can be as important as sense.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.