Poetry Is The Cipher Key To The

Money Buys Everything Except Love, Personality, Freedom, Immortality, Silence, Peace.

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

There Are Men And Women So Lonely They Believe God, Too, Is Lonely.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Poetry Is An Echo, Asking A Shadow To Dance.