When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.

I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.

Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists

Poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths.

You think so logically... like a hawk soaring - I feel so chaotically... like a kite without a tail plummeting to earth.