After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars

I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.

Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.

In these times you have to be an optimist to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.

Back of every mistaken venture and defeat is the laughter of wisdom, if you listen.

And those who say, "I'll try anything once," often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.

Poetry is an art practiced with the terribly plastic material of human language.