POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.

The past is a bucket of ashes

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.

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.

Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.