There is a purpose to our lives that each day tugs at our sleeve as an annoying distraction.
Anything we tell our kids about life is a placemarker until they figure it out for themselves.
In every gardener there is a child who believes in The Seed Fairy.
To hurt someone you know will forgive you is the unkindiest thing of all.
It is not happiness until you capture it and store it out of the reach of time.
Does a rose exist that I might behold it? Or do I exist that a rose might be beheld?