How Hard It Is To Have The

Lost Time Is Like A Run In A Stocking. It Always Gets Worse.

When We Start At The Center Of Ourselves, We Discover Something Worthwhile Extending Toward The Periphery Of The Circle. We Find Again Some Of The Joy In The Now, Some Of The Peace In The Here, Some Of The Love In Me And Thee Which Go To Make Up The Kingdom Of Heaven On Earth.

Perhaps I Am A Bear, Or Some Hibernating Animal Underneath, For The Instinct To Be Half Asleep All Winter Is So Strong In Me.

When I Cannot Write A Poem, I Bake Biscuits And Feel Just As Pleased.

There Is No Sin Punished More Implacably By Nature Than The Sin Of Resistance To Change.