What Do I Haveto Help

My Prose Is Turgid, It Just Hasn't Got Any Energy

I Always Wanted A Child. Being A Mother Is The Central Thing In My Life.

Where I Lived - Winter And Hard Earth.i Sat In My Cold Stone Roomchoosing Tough Words, Granite, Flint,to Break The Ice. My Broken Heart -i Tried That, But It Skimmed,flat, Over The Frozen Lake.she Came From A Long, Long Way,but I Saw Her At Last, Walking,my Daughter, My Girl, Across The Fields,in Bare Feet, Bringing All Spring's Flowersto Her Mother's House. I Swearthe Air Softened And Warmed As She Moved,the Blue Sky Smiling, None Too Soon,with The Small Shy Mouth Of A New Moon.

Time Hates Love, Wants Love Poor,/but Love Spins Gold, Gold, Gold From Straw.

Auden Said Poetry Makes Nothing Happen. But I Wonder If The Opposite Could Be True. It Could Make Something Happen.