Thursday, May 14, 2009

Sunday, May 10, 2009


Poetry nests in our souls
until it flies away on
the feather of a quill.

—Terri Guillemets

Bread, butter, & love

When I was sick, my mom would make me toast. And she would always put a little too much butter, and too much jelly. And I don't like too much jelly. But it always tasted like love. And it was always the best toast I'd ever had. And it always made me feel better.

—Terri Guillemets

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Reflecting in the night

My wrinkles are a playground of happy memories.

—Terri Guillemets

Saturday, May 2, 2009

What escapes

Each book written hardens the author a little more. The best are concrete — but cracked, with a flower growing through.

—Terri Guillemets