For The Fall Of The Year Is

Time Has Its Own Dimensions, And Neither The Sun Nor The Clock Can Encompass Them All.

The Longer I Live And The More I Read, The More Certain I Become That The Real Poems About Spring Aren't Written On Paper. They Are Written In The Back Pasture And The Near Meadow, And They Are Issued In A New Revised Edition Every April.

Summer Is A Promissory Note Signed In June, Its Long Days Spent And Gone Before You Know It, And Due To Be Repaid Next January.

March Is A Tomboy With Tousled Hair, A Mischievous Smile, Mud On Her Shoes And A Laugh In Her Voice.

A Frontier Is Never A Place; It Is A Time And A Way Of Life.