The Way A Crow Shook

I Am Not A Nature Poet. There Is Almost Always A Person In My Poems.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

I Do Not See Why I Should E’er Turn Back, Or Those Should Not Set Forth Upon My Track To Overtake Me, Who Should Miss Me Here And Long To Know If Still I Held Them Dear. They Would Not Find Me Changed From Him They Knew — Only More Sure Of All I Thought Was True.

Being The Boss Anywhere Is Lonely. Being A Female Boss In A World Of Mostly Men Is Especially So.

Live And Let Live, Believe And Let Believe. 'twas Said The Lesser Gods Were Only Traits Of The One Awful God. Just So The Saints Are God's White Light Refracted Into Colors.