The Ladybug wears no disguises. She is just what she advertises. A speckled spectacle of spring, A fashion statement on the wing.... A miniature orange kite. A tiny dot-to-dot delight.

Poetry is perfect verbs hunting for elusive nouns.

Poetry is frosted fire.

Please bury me in the library With a dozen long-stemmed proses

I won't be sad too often, If they bury me in the library With bookworms in my coffin.

Poetry is prose, bent out of shape.

Poetry is the tunnel at the end of the light.