The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas

Human Life Is Too Difficult For People.

Writing Is Rewriting What You Have Rewritten.

But Maybe It's Up The Hills Or Under The Leaves Or In A Ditch Somewhere. Maybe It's Never Found. But What You Find, Whatever You Find, Is Only Part Of The Missing, And Writing Is The Way The Poet Finds Out What It Is He Found.

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

To Eat In The Same Room Where Food Is Cooked - That Is The Way To Thank The Lord For His Abundance.