There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.
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.
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
The squeaky wheel gets the grease but the quacking duck gets shot.
Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.