Every Day I Walk Out Into The

What Can We Do About God, Who Makes And Then Breaks Every God-forsaken, Beautiful Day?

Poetry Is A Life-cherishing Force.

Praying It Doesn’t Have To Be The Blue Iris, It Could Be Weeds In A Vacant Lot, Or A Few Small Stones; Just Pay Attention, Then Patch A Few Words Together And Don’t Try To Make Them Elaborate, This Isn’t A Contest But The Doorway Into Thanks, And A Silence In Which Another Voice May Speak.

Also I Wanted To Be Able To Love And We All Know How That One Goes, Don't We? Slowly

Maybe Death Isn't Darkness, After All, But So Much Light Wrapping Itself Around Us--