Where Joy In An Old Pencil Is

The Gift Turned Inward, Unable To Be Given, Becomes A Heavy Burden, Even Sometimes A Kind Of Poison. It Is As Though The Flow Of Life Were Backed Up.

Gardening Is An Instrument Of Grace.

What Is There To Do When People Die - People So Dear And Rare - But Bring Them Back By Remembering?

Where Joy In An Old Pencil Is Not Absurd.

Poetry Finds Its Perilous Equilibrium Somewhere Between Music And Speech.