The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.

In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.

Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.

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

The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.

Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.