While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me - drawing on my skin - not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.

Without the light, no chance; without the dark, no dance.

Snowman wakes before dawn.

I have never had any problems with editors who wanted me to change my methods or point of view. I pay a lot of attention to editors, but in a different way. They sometimes catch mistakes and help with the order of poems in a book. I do not underestimate them! Indeed, I have been one myself.

I am not your justification for existence.

Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!