A Tree Is Best Measured

The Simple Dignity Of A Child Drinking A Bowl Of Milk Embodies The Fascination Of An Ancient Rite.

Poetry Is A Series Of Explanations Of Life, Fading Off Into Horizons Too Swift For Explanations.

Didn't You Tie The Mittens On Her Feet (wednesday Evening's) Extra Special Nice? Yes--she Is An Extra Special Nice Pigeon. She Cries For Pity When She Wants Pity. And She Shuts Her Eyes When She Doesn't Want To Look At You. And If You Look Deep In Her Eyes When Her Eyes Are Open You Will See Lights There Exactly Like The Lights On The Pastures And The Meadows When The Mist Is Drifting On A Wednesday Evening Just Between The Twilight And Gloaming.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

It Is The Business Of Little Minds To Shrink.