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

It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.

When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.

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

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

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

I make no apology about stirring the depths - every human longs to swim under water and see what lurks beneath