I Have In Later Years Taken To

The Peace Of Great Books Be For You, Stains Of Pressed Clover Leaves On Pages, Bleach Of The Light Of Years Held In Leather.

Yesterday And Tomorrow Cross And Mix On The Skyline. The Two Are Lost In A Purple Haze. One Forgets, One Waits.

Poetry Is The Harnessing Of The Paradox Of Earth Cradling Life And Then Entombing It.

I've Written Some Poetry I Don't Understand Myself.

Poetry Is A Diary Kept By A Sea Creature Who Lives On Land And Wishes He Could Fly.