Strangers are just friends waiting to happen

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

Poetry is fact given over to imagery.

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.

The gifts that one receives for giving are so immeasurable that it is almost an injustice to accept them.

We come into the world alone. We go away the same. We're meant to spend the interlude between in closeness or so we tell ourselves. But it's a long way from the morning to the evening.

Extending your hand is extending yourself.