There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

sorrow is easier than guilt.

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

Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

The sanest thing in this world is love.

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.