I never question God. Sometimes I say, ‘Why me? Why do I have such a hard life? Why do I have this disease? Why do I have siblings who died?’ But then I think and say, ‘Why not me?’
Girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes.
One of those quiet types who logs a lot of time in the bedlam of her head, I sometimes need to be startled awake to the fact that the outside world still exists.
Like a pianist runs her fingers over the keys, I’ll search my mind for what to say. Now, the poem may want you to write it. And then sometimes you see a situation and think, ‘I’d like to write about that.’ Those are two different ways of being approached by a poem, or approaching a poem.
Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
The ground swell is what’s going to sink you as well as being what buoys you up. These are cliches also, of course, and I’m sometimes interested in how much one can get away with.
My life has been long, and believing that life loves the liver of it, I have dared to try many things, sometimes trembling, but daring still.
I do think that maybe, even subconsciously, a lot of parents in the West are wondering, have we gone too far in the direction of coddling and protecting – you know, you see kids, sometimes that seem very rude and disrespectful. And the more important thing is they don’t seem that happy.
When a hurricane thrashes the mid-Atlantic, my hilly town often reaps the fringe of the storm. The rain starts blowing sideways, and sometimes we see hail the size of purie marbles.
Sometimes it takes a brush with eternity – a crash, an illness, some shock to the system – to get you really thinking about what you want to do with your limited time here, and why you’re living on this wobbling dirt clod in the first place.