Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind. Maxwell Bodenheim ...
and the day camewhen the risk toremain tight in abud was greaterthan the risk ittook to ...
How lovely the silence of growing things i don’t know who said that ...
More in a garden grows,than what the gardener sows. i don’t know who said that first ...
we are explorers in search of a beautiful way to fill the frame. i said that ...
Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve and too short for those who ...
Joy was a flame in me too steady to destroy. Lithe as a bending reed, loving ...
Peering through the glass door, I saw the rain from the night had blanketed the lawn ...
Never give in.Never, never, never, never.In nothing great or small,large or petty, never give in,except to ...
i don’t know who said that first ...
Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one. Stella ...