Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.

I love giving flowers. It is so deliciously unlasting and romantic.

Poetry finds its perilous equilibrium somewhere between music and speech.

Death does frame a person and somehow it is the good that stays.

What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.

For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.

We are able to laugh when we achieve detachment, if only for a moment.