Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind

Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.

Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside

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.

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

Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.