Maybe Her Own Tears Were The Poison

War Is Being Reminded That You Are Completely At The Mercy Of Death At Every Moment, Without The Illusion That You Are Not. Without The Distractions That Make Life Worth Living.

Everything Was Chocolate Ice Cream And Kisses And Wind.

At First We Raced Through Space, Like Shadows And Light; Her Rants, My Raves; Her Dark Hair, My Blonde; Black Dresses, White. She's A Purple-black African-violet-dark Butterfly And I A White Moth. We Were Two Wild Ponies, Dawn And Midnight, The Wind Electrifying Our Manes And Our Hooves Quaking The City; We Were Photo Negatives Of Each Other, Together Making The Perfect Image Of A Girl.

I Think That Poetry Is Perfect For Women Raising Children, With Just Bits Of Time And Such Need To Connect To Other Women Out Of The Isolation Of Motherhood.

Each Of Us Has A Family Tree Full Of Stories Inside Of Us, Dirk Thought. Each Of Us Has A Story Blossoming Out Of Us.