I'm A Writer First And A Woman

We Cling To Our Last Pleasures As The Tree Clings To Its Last Leaves.

What I Feel For You Can’t Be Conveyed In Phrasal Combinations; It Either Screams Out Loud Or Stays Painfully Silent But I Promise — It Beats Words. It Beats Worlds. I Promise

What Can You Do If You Are Thirty And, Turning The Corner Of Your Own Street, You Are Overcome, Suddenly, By A Feeling Of Bliss - Absolute Bliss - As Though You'd Suddenly Swallowed A Bright Piece Of That Late Afternoon Sun And It Burned In Your Bosom, Sending Out A Little Shower Of Sparks Into Every Particle Into Every Finger And Toe?

Do The Hardest Thing On Earth For You. Act Yourself.

No, No The Mind I Love Must Still Have Wild Places - A Tangled Orchard Where Dark Damsons Drop In The Heavy Grass, An Overgrown Litde Wood, The Chance Of A Snake Or Two (real Snakes), A Pool That Nobody's Fathomed The Depth Of, And Paths Threaded With Those Litde Flowers Planted By The Wind.