I was thinking of that desert night

Deep in the heart

These last few years

Go with Your Dreams...

Poems are words hung out to dry

We are all of us only re-worked stardust.

Thin as winter fruit, he stood in the orchard extending his hand, begging in an unknown tongue. I was nine years old. Fourteen years...

Oh, Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon

I awake to the

Weep not for me

At the same time

Born in a solitary place, I hear

I knew playing doctor was bad;

The Season joyously unfolds

I found him humming a fanciful tune

Hiram fly his aroplane