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Tonight the lake is solid, So that at night there are two moons - One in the sky and one trapped Underneath a layer of frosty glass. The moon-pair lights up the trees And all is silver and brilliant. And when I walked at night, I stood on the mounds of ice On what used to be grassy ground And looked down to see another Moon glittering below me.

The times are tired and tired are the thoughts that follow the twisted tracks of turmoil – always turbulent, always trying, and now so tangible. Selfless must now the self be. Silent slumber must be shaken to struggle for the strugglers. The soul was searched long ago - now start the story.

I have never held your hand, but I know it will fit mine perfectly.

The folk deem it a sad affair, Regarding the Sun and the Moon. Two lovers who can never meet— A celestial misfortune! For in hot pursuit of the Moon, The grand Sun sets the sky ablaze; And when the evening arrives, The lovely Moon returns the chase. The Sun takes gifts of gleaming gold For his dear Moon – so say the folk – And then the Moon offers the Sun A dark, glittering, starry cloak. This perfect tragic tale of love The poets write in verses long, And elders recite by bonfires, And composers turn into song. But human eyes cannot perceive That there is a triangle here: The Moon stays with her darling Earth

He sailed the years away at sea, Searching for fortune grand. She waited an eternity Upon forgotten land.

This is a holy place of cures, where so many come from so far —and so many die! She shall evade death today. Yet a silent terror inside me grows, spreading like a tumor. And why am I afraid? What is this unknown dread that is stealing my rhyme? I search for wisdom in the lines of the poetess, but even Emily disappoints. Her verses speak of love, of time and nature, and the power of perspective. But no words discuss the fear that plagues the bravest ones in blank moments of despair— The fear that renounces logic, and, clouding its own cause, paralyzes hope.

Celebrate their happiness and lament their sorrow. But they are in a realm of their own, and no matter how far you reach, you can never touch them. You live in this world, and they live between the slightly worn pages that you love to fondle. Celebrate their happiness and lament their sorrow – and after you are done, close the book.

Wheels were falling from the sky. Flaming wheels. The river was flowing up the Eucalyptus tree. And Nicky, my neighbor's son, was flying. Enough! says my pen. I refuse to write such nonsense. Wheels do not fall from the sky. Rivers do not flow upwards. And unless he is in an airplane, your neighbor's son cannot fly. You are right, O Pen. These things do not happen in the natural world. But if I do not write the Impossible, what good is my imagination, or, for that matter, your ink? Wheels were falling from the sky. That's right, Pen. Flaming wheels.

"O'er by the mighty river, 'tween the hills so old, Is where I must be buried when my blood runs cold." And when she said these words, he quickly grasped her hand: "Of course, my lovely rose, if that is your command. See, now your dress is silk, your bracelets made of brass, But your eternal gown shall be of em'rald grass. If that is your desire," – and she nodded her head – "The valley shall be where I make your final bed." Another thought flew in and settled on her brow: "But darling, you might die before I perish, now." Her blue eyes threatened floods, as she let out a sigh. He asked his inner bard to gallantly reply:

Sew me a book of dreams, so that when my mind dangles on the dreary verge of solitude, I need only flip a cover to drive away the demons. And when my wretched Imagination works overtime, painting with its cruel brush all over my inner eye, I need only turn a page to see goodness once more. And finally when the sun shines, drying my eyes and warming my heart, I need only look at your book to know I'll never fall again.