Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.
December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.
You think so logically. . . like a hawk soaring - I feel so chaotically. . . like a kite without a tail plummeting to earth.
I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.
If you want your own distinctive voice, you first have to become someone.
Ambition or contentment? This simple question led me back to a more balanced view of life and put me in touch with the Me I used to know.
The winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows.
I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.
Summer softens lines that winter cruelly shows.
I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists
It must be hard when you are a beautiful woman and no one will look at your soul.
Some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart.
Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.
Poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths.
Each heart is made of a different stone - no two feel alike nor break the same way.
You can be angry and silent, but it's no use - there's no distance in the spirit - besides, my words touch you more softly than my hands.
Sunday evenings are heavier than clouds with rain, darker too and often interminable.
When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.
And not out of fear or loneliness, but only to find myself again. . . for we have come too far my Life, to turn back now.
When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.