She was learning to love moments. To love moments for themselves.
There are no magics or elves / Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.
Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower steel, stitch, cloud and clout, and drumbeats on the air.
Nothing could stop Mississippi.
I am a writer perhaps because I am not a talker.
Exhaust the little moment / Soon it dies.