For me a true poem is on the way when I begin to be haunted, when it seems as if I were being asked an inescapable question by an angel with whom I must wrestle to get at the answer.

It is sometimes the most fragile things that have the power to endure and become sources of strength.

I suppose I have written novels to find out what I thought about something and poems to find out what I felt about something.

The only way through pain…is to absorb, probe, understand exactly what it is and what it means. To close the door on pain is to miss the chance for growth.

So let the world go, but hold fast to joy.

Words are my passion / And out of them and me / I would create beauty.

Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.