Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists

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

I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.

The religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky.

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

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.