I try to never lose sight of what a special time it is to be a women's basketball player.
The people need poetry that will be their own secret To keep them awake forever, And bathe them in the bright-haired wave of its breathing.
Take from my palms, to soothe your heart, a little honey, a little sun, in obedience to Persephone's bees. You can't untie a boat that was never moored, nor hear a shadow in its furs, nor move through thick life without fear. For us, all that's left is kisses tattered as the little bees that die when they leave the hive. Deep in the transparent night they're still humming, at home in the dark wood on the mountain, in the mint and lungwort and the past. But lay to your heart my rough gift, this unlovely dry necklace of dead bees that once made a sun out of honey.
Where to start? Everything cracks and shakes, The air trembles with similes, No one world's better than another; the earth moans with metaphors.
My turn shall also come: I sense the spreading of a wing.
Perhaps the whisper was born before lips, And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew, And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss, Acquire their forms before we do
Poetry is the plough that turns up time in such a way that the abyssal strata of time, its black earth, appear on the surface.
the real evidence of growing older is that things level off in importance. . . Days are no longer jagged peaks to climb; time is a meadow, and we move over it with level steps.
After the accident Black Sheep was pretty much at an end.
Cowardice, when done correctly, can be its own kind of bravery.
My son is two weeks old today. The minute he came in my arms and looked at me it changed my life. Literally changed my life. When I say changed my life, I mean he showed me love I thought. . . I know. . . the word love, there is no way to describe this love. It's so powerful.