“Maybe when I pour my words on paper. Maybe it’ll feel like how it might feel wrapping you in my arms.”

I can spend a lifetime without you. But not this moment, not tonight.

My happy poems will be flowers on a grave. You will see a garden in all its bloom. But underneath the earth. I lay.

To my heart, you’re my home.

You can break me into pieces. And all million of me will love you still.

I miss people I have never met. Conversations I have never had. Streets I’ve never walked. And love I have never made.

Even if it’s for a little time. Birds build homes too.

Oh darling, if you won’t be yourself who will?

Some people are sunshine.

Please tell your sons. It’s okay to cry. Tears don’t make them any less of a boy.

I hope when you lie under the night skies, you’re a vision for the stars.

The woods in the wild need no tending to.

I was so busy loving you. I didn’t notice you were leaving.

In a room full of people. I hope I have the courage to always be me.

How I wish I could hold you a little longer, and more. And forever.

I do, so often, wish you were here. But more often I wish that you were wishing to be here.

You can walk in and out. I have built no doors.

Didn’t have Nintendo, we just poured salt on snails.

I learned that from Nana. But rainy days still make my cheeks wet with tears, even now. It was pouring, on that rainy day.

It was a fleeting statement, one I didn’t think she’d hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us.

Pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter; Joseph was her it.

It doesn’t. What matters is what you make. Whether it’s a cake for bingo night or a costume for a saint or a wall of water-whatever you pour into this life is what makes you rich.

The lips of the wise are as the doors of a cabinet; no sooner are they opened, but treasures are poured out before thee.

It hinders the creative work of the mind if the intellect examines too closely the ideas as they pour in.

Art is the funnel, as it were, through which spirit is poured into life.