Summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows.

Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.

Some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart.

I'm not afraid of the opinions of others - but of being needed and coming up short.

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

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

Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.