December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.
That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...
Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.
I have found, beauty is the illumination of the mind.
I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.
I'm shy in person - so afraid to confess my love - I need a go-between - our mutual friend, the Moon.