Had Any Poet Adequately Described

I Sound Contemptuous, But I Am Not. I Am Interested--intrigued Even--by The Way Time Erases Real Lives, Leaving Only Vague Imprints. Blood And Spirit Fade Away So That Only Names And Dates Remain.

Life Could Be Cruel Enough These Days Without The Truth Making It Worse.

I Probably Coughed Self-pityingly In Response, Little Aware That I Was About To Cross A Tremendous Threshold Beyond Which There Would Be No Return, That In My Hands I Held An Object Whose Simple Appearance Belied Its Profound Power. All True Readers Have A Book, A Moment, Like The One I Describe, And When Mum Offered Me That Much-read Library Copy Mine Was Upon Me.

Sometimes, Edie, A Person's Feelings Aren't Rational. At Least, They Don't Seem That Way On The Surface. You Have To Dig A Little Deeper To Understand What Lies At The Base

But Happiness ... Happiness Grows At Our Own Firesides," She Said. "it Is Not To Be Picked In Strangers' Gardens." ~ The House At Riverton