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

When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.

I'm shy in person - so afraid to confess my love - I need a go-between - our mutual friend, the Moon.

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

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

It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.

Each heart is made of a different stone - no two feel alike nor break the same way.