Writing Is Rewriting What You Have Rewritten.

But Maybe It's Up The Hills Or Under The Leaves Or In A Ditch Somewhere. Maybe It's Never Found. But What You Find, Whatever You Find, Is Only Part Of The Missing, And Writing Is The Way The Poet Finds Out What It Is He Found.

Human Life Is Too Difficult For People.

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas Eve Is My Mother's Hand Making Sure I Was Settled In Bed.

Every Christmas Should Begin With The Sound Of Bells, And When I Was A Child Mine Always Did. But They Were Sleigh Bells, Not Church Bells, For We Lived In A Part Of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Where There Were No Churches.