Memory Is Each Man's Poet-in-residence.

I Can Hardly Wait For Tomorrow, It Means A New Life For Me Each And Every Day.

Live In The Layers, Not On The Litter.

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.