Purple As Tulips In May, Mauve Into

I Have No Connections Here; Only Gusty Collisions, Rootless Seedlings Forced Into Bloom, That Collapse. ... I Am The Visiting Poet: A Real Unicorn, A Wind-up Plush Dodo, A Wax Museum Of The Movement. People Want To Push The Buttons And See Me Glow.

My Idea Of Hell Is To Be Young Again.

Connections Are Made Slowly, Sometimes They Grow Underground.

We Must Shine With Hope, Stained Glass Windows That Shape Light Into Icons, Glow Like Lanterns Borne Before A Procession. Who Can Bear Hope Back Into The World But Us.

Writing Is A Futile Attempt To Preserve What Disappears Moment By Moment. All That Remains Of My Mother Is What I Remember And What I Have Written For And About Her. Eventually That Is All That Will Remain Of [my Husband] And Me. Writing Sometimes Feels Frivolous And Sometimes Sacred, But Memory Is One Of My Strongest Muses. I Serve Her With My Words. So Long As People Read, Those We Love Survive However Evanescently. As Do We Writers, Saying With Our Life's Work, Remember. Remember Us. Remember Me.