Unless The Gentle Inherit The Earth, /

Miracles Cannot Be Explained, That Is Their Miraculous Nature.

One Of The Springs Of Poetry Is Joy.

Life Is Always Bringing Unexpected Gifts.

In The Middle Of The Night, Things Well Up From The Past That Are Not Always Cause For Rejoicing--the Unsolved, The Painful Encounters, The Mistakes, The Reasons For Shame Or Woe. But All, Good Or Bad, Give Me Food For Thought, Food To Grow On.

It Is Clear That We Do Not Exactly Choose Our Poems; Our Poems Choose Us.