Poetry is frosted fire.
Poetry is the tunnel at the end of the light.
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.
Please bury me in the library With a dozen long-stemmed proses
A bad book owes to many trees | A forest of apologies.
I have always believed that poems beg to be read aloud, even if the reader is in a world all her own.