The winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows.

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.

A sensual life is a ghostly existence where you live on the surface and your soul passes through everything, touching nothing.

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

The abyss you stare into and that stares back at you is your reflection in the mirror - we all have it - that shadow self - that dark heart.

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