Absence Becomes The Greatest Presence.

A Garden Is Always A Series Of Losses Set Against A Few Triumphs, Like Life Itself.

It Is The Place Of Renewal And Of Safety, Where For A Little While There Will Be No Harm Or Attack And, While Every Sense Is Nourished, The Soul Rests.

He [the Cat] Wound Himself Around Her Legs, Purring The Purr Of Ardent Desire Like A Kettle Coming To A Boil And Then Bubbling Very Fast.

Innocence Is Not Pure So Much As Pleased, Always Expectant, Bright-eyed, Self-enclosed

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.