A bottle of wine Still to be drunk, A bundle of thoughts Still to be thunk.

It's like this. Father Time keeps pitching the years at us. We swing and miss at a few. We hit a few out of the park. We try not to take any called strikes.

God left so many fingerprints at the scene of Creation that you wonder — does He want to be found, or does He want to be stopped?

There is a tendency to see divine intervention in things that happen in the normal course of miracles.

Eventually the person who tries to fix the problem will be blamed for causing it.

All is illusion, although as long as there's an illusion that the kids need to be fed, all might as well be reality.

As a gardener, I wonder if flowers really can't speak or just exercise unfailing good judgment in the matter.