You can't spell Earth, without Art.

Oh, I don’t mean you’re handsome, not the way people think of handsome. Your face seems kind. But your eyes — they’re beautiful. They’re wild, crazy, like some animal peering out of a forest on fire.

“I called you”

I feel good with my husband: I like his warmth and his bigness and his being-there and his making and his jokes and stories and what he reads and how he likes fishing and walks and pigs and foxes and little animals and is honest and not vain or fame-crazy and how he shows his gladness for what I cook him and joy for when I make him something, a poem or a cake, and how he is troubled when I am unhappy and wants to do anything so I can fight out my soul-battles and grow up with courage and a philosophical ease. I love his good smell and his body that fits with mine as if they were made in the same body-shop to do just that. What is only pieces, doled out here and there to this boy and that boy, that made me like pieces of them, is all jammed together in my husband. So I don’t want to look around any more: I don’t need to look around for anything.

October is about trees revealing colors they’ve hidden all year. People have an October as well.

I hope our daughters are born with so much fire in their souls, they could put volcanoes and stars to shame.

The summer air is now laced with autumn breezes. Time is passing.