Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.

I asked myself the question, 'What do you want of your life?' and I realized with a start of recognition and terror, 'Exactly what I have - but to be commensurate, to handle it all better.

life is always bringing unexpected gifts.

Absence becomes the greatest Presence.

For to be desperate is to discover strength. / We die of comfort and by conflict live.

Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?

Your poems will happen when no one is there.