I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

Most Things May Never Happen: This One Will.

And The Case Of Butterflies So Rich It Looks As If All Summer Settled There And Died.

Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most Of Us.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.