For it is up to you and meto take solacein nostalgia's armsand our abilityto create the everlastingfrom fleeting moments.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated....foreverin my mother’s arms.

When I write...I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.