One Can't Build Little White Picket Fences

Depression Is Boring, I Think And I Would Do Better To Make Some Soup And Light Up The Cave.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow. When I See It, Suddenly, In The Air, All Little And White And Moving; Then I Am In Love Again And Very Young And I Believe Everything.

Images Are The Heart Of Poetry ... You're Not A Poet Without Imagery.

As For Me, I Am A Watercolor. I Wash Off.