I Worked So Hard All My Life,

Whenever There Is Stillness There Is The Still Small Voice, God's Speaking From The Whirlwind, Nature's Old Song, And Dance.

Many Writers Do Little Else But Sit In Small Rooms Recalling The Real World.

Every Live Thing Is A Survivor On A Kind Of Extended Emergency Bivouac.

I Wake Expectant, Hoping To See A New Thing.

What Is A House But A Bigger Skin, And A Neighborhood Map But The World's Skin Ever Expanding?