My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree, (and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing)...

What is it?” “A prayer.” “For a child?” She nodded. “For me?” Another nod. “On a tree?” “Trees spend all day looking up at God.

All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped.

We all know how to be a child. It's inside all of us. For me, it's just remembering how to enjoy it.