Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
A pear should come to the table popped with juice, Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On terms Like these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.
Realism is a corruption of reality.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."