Nothing In The Cry Of Cicadas Suggests

Nothing In The Cry Of Cicadas Suggests They Are About To Die

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

I Am One Who Eats Breakfast Gazing At Morning Glories.

Learn The Rules, And Then Forget Them.

Why So Scrawny, Cat? Starving For Fat Fish Or Mice... Or Backyard Love?