so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.
Sun benches at the curb bespeak another season, truncated poplars that having served for shade served also later for the fire.
Time is a storm in which we are all lost.
I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.
For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.
The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
