Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.

The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

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

Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.

I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.

I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.