Glancing in the rearview mirror at the years behind me, looking at what disappears when I go around a bend or up a hill then down and the past is gone until I stop to look back at the choices that I’ve made and listen to the voices rising in me when I sit...
Many great ideas are accidents--so are melodies and first lines of poemsand how about the dreamsyou bump into in the middle of the nightthat wake you with what you need to know.Sometimes, heading west, blinded by the glaring sun,you barely miss a head-on...
Being older doesn’t make me any less a kid still holding what was precious then, though now they’re tarnished and I must confess dulled by these aging hands and yet, again and again I hold those ideals to the light— sometimes the sun, sometimes the turnin...
