The fog comes on little cat feet.

It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.

Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.

Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.

Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.

And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.

There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.