Where I Came From, The Nights I

One Of The Best Gifts You Can Give A Poet Is To Present Them With Field Guides - To Rocks, To Stars, To Birds, To Wildflowers, To Trees And Bushes, To Butterflies, To Reptiles And Amphibians. Because When You Look At Anything Long Enough To Be Able To Identify It, You See Far More Clearly And You Make A Tiny Beginning At Understanding The Life, The Place, The History Of That Bird Or Rock Or Mammal.

Hope Sleeps In Our Bones Like A Bear Waiting For Spring To Rise And Walk.

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.

Live As If You Liked Yourself, And It May Happen: Reach Out, Keep Reaching Out, Keep Bringing In. This Is How We Are Going To Live For A Long Time: Not Always, For Every Gardener Knows That After The Digging, After The Planting, After The Long Season Of Tending And Growth, The Harvest Comes.

There Is No Justice We Don't Make Daily Like Bread And Love.