Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.

Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.