Deprivation Is For Me What Daffodils Were

I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.

Life Has A Practice Of Living You, If You Don't Live It.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live. They Come, They Wake Us Time And Time Over. Theyare To Be Happy In: Where Can We Live But Days?

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

Parting Is A Training Streamer,lingering Like Leaves In Autumn.