The joy that isn't shared dies young.

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.