Prayer is a many fingeredand kaleidoscopic thing—it foldsand unfolds inside of you. It entersthe many rooms you cannot enter.

If Springtime crawls out of thewild mouths of flowers, thensurely, Winter crawls out of mine.

If the sun rolled back like an eye, it would see the mind of God.

There are boneswaiting for names in the graveyards.Even the sun above us is dying, onelanded repetition of light at a time.

Darkness moves like a pack of wild dogs.The wind moves like a wounded animal.The ground must be full of teeth by now.

Winter is already a lost shape, forgottenin the ground. Instead, here is Springwith all the grace of a womansmoothing out her apron.

Consider, O Lover, my throatwhite as cigarette paper.The crushed lavender of my knuckles. My heart, a dulled needle threaded throughtoo many patterns.

That dandy, the sky, enters blue-suitedsun like a scotch in hand.

We do not fight to tear down but to build up.

Life is the journey of coming home to ourselves.

I have always been drawn to coming-of-age stories and books and movies featuring compelling young characters.

I love going to other people's weddings, but I have never desired a big white wedding for myself, and it has never been put on me as a pressure, an expectation.

When among the graves of thy fellows, walk with circumspection; thine own is open at thy feet.

We have also seen this spate of incidents, racially-charged incidents, across the country right now. What should President-Elect [Donald] Trump do to get that under control?

When the conversation turns too quickly to films,I see it as a sign of weakness.

People would pay money to work at CNN

Before you complain today, be grateful you have breath to complain with.

Among the tortures and devestations of life is this then - our friends are not able to finish their stories.