I pray this winter be gentle and kind - a season of rest from the wheel of the mind.

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

We fear monsters because we fear the dark parts of ourselves.

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

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

You can be angry and silent, but it's no use - there's no distance in the spirit - besides, my words touch you more softly than my hands.

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