Miracles Cannot Be Explained, That Is Their

Death Does Frame A Person And Somehow It Is The Good That Stays.

I Would Like To Believe When I Die That I Have Given Myself Away Like A Tree That Sows Seed Every Spring And Never Counts The Loss, Because It Is Not Loss, It Is Adding To Future Life. It Is The Tree's Way Of Being. Strongly Rooted Perhaps, But Spilling Out Its Treasure On The Wind.

One Of The Springs Of Poetry Is Joy.

Read Between The Lines.then Meet Me In The Silence If You Can.

Why Is It That People Who Cannot Show Feeling Presume That That Is A Strength And Not A Weakness?