I'm shy in person - so afraid to confess my love - I need a go-between - our mutual friend, the Moon.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

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

You think so logically... like a hawk soaring - I feel so chaotically... like a kite without a tail plummeting to earth.

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.

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