Watch the indolent butterfly playing on the tall flower in the yard and think about the sun going down. It always does you know.

I cannot speculate on what our cluttered mind will save- sleepy Sundays, or a nosebleed after love. I know only the dying heart needs the nourishment of memory to live beyond too many winters.

I've come to terms with it, it knows I know.

It happens just because we need to want and to be wanted too, when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and listen to the warm.

Never fear being alone, because you never are.

May your hand be full for always if only with another hand. May your heart be empty only long enough to give you cause to fill it up again with love. May your soul be lost by you only to be found by God.

Extending your hand is extending yourself.