I... allowed my memory to journey back to the days when I was a boy of ten, full of health and optimism, when my wonder at the great game of living had yet to give way to disillusionment at its shabbiness.

How evanescent those loves and friendships seem at this distance in time…We move on, make new attachments. We grow old. But sometimes, we hanker for old friendships, the old loves. Sometimes I wish I was young again. Or that I could travel back in time and pick up the threads. Absent so long, I may have stopped loving you, friends; but I will never stop loving the Day I loved you.

There is money to be made in the market place, but under the cherry tree there is rest.

The more you write, the better you will write! So - keep at it!

To early man, trees were objects of awe and wonder. The mystery of their growth, the movement of their leaves and branches, the way they seemed to die and come again to life in spring, the sudden growth of the plant from the seed - all these appeared to be miracles as indeed they still are, miracles of nature!

When I write I just keep a waste paper basket handy in case I am experiencing a block.

To return to my own trees, I went among them often, acknowledging their presence with a touch of my hand against their trunks.