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Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and look abroad. From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across a hundred years.

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Terry Tempest Williams

I think my heart breaks daily living in Salt Lake City, Utah. But I still love it. And that is the richness, the texture.

Daily, Heart, Lakes, Living, Thinking, Utah
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To be whole. To be complete. Wildness reminds us what it means to be human, what we are connected to rather than what we are separate from.

Connected, Mean, Nature, Reminds, Science, Separate

There is an art to writing, and it is not always disclosure. The act itself can be beautiful, revelatory, and private.

Act, Art, Beautiful, Revelatory, Writing

Not everything is meant for all to hear.

Everything, Hear, Meant

Whatever artistry may occur within the manuscript, the magic happens for me in the last draft. Whatever I have been resistant to say must finally be said. In the end, I see where my pencil has been leading me.

Artistry, Lasts, Magic, May, Said

There is something very sensual about a letter. The physical contact of pen to paper, the time set aside to focus thoughts, the folding of the paper into the envelope, licking it closed, addressing it, a chosen stamp, and then the release of the letter to the mailbox - are all acts of tenderness.

Aside, Closed, Focus, Paper, Sensual
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