If A Piece Of Knotted String Can

... There Are Four Women In Every Man’s Heart. The Maid In The Meadow, The Demon Lover, The Stouthearted Woman, The Tall And Quiet Woman.

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

No Wonder, He Thought, That The Panhandle People Were A Godly Lot, For They Lived In Sudden, Violent Atmospheres. Weather Kept Them Humble.

I Wish I Knew How To Quit You.

I Didn't Have A Chance To Buy You Anything," She Said, Then Held Both Closed Hands Toward Him. Uncurled Her Fingers. In Each Cupped Palm A Brown Egg. He Took Them. They Were Cold. He Thought It A Tender, Wonderful Thing To Do. She Had Given Him Something, The Eggs, After All, Only A Symbol, But They Had Come From Her Hands As A Gift. To Him. It Didn't Matter That He'd Bought Them Himself At The Supermarket The Day Before. He Imagined She Understood Him, That She Had To Love Him To Know That It Was The Outstreched Hands, The Giving, That Mattered.