He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
I was raised to be a girl Michelangelo.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
As I remember, the first real poem I wrote was about the wheat fields between Spokane and Pullman, to the south.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.
No matter how brief an encounter you have with anybody, you both change.
I discovered it was easier to carry around a pen than a piano.