I have found, beauty is the illumination of the mind.
Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.
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.
That icy glass reduces your beauty - dims your fire - let me be your mirror...
The religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky.