As children, some of us liked magic and fantasy, more than reality. So, we became writers. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
“Take your shoes off,” purred the ocean waves. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
The child began reading favorite stories of magic to the river, believing the tales would be carried to someone in need. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Writing a story allows us to play with our imaginary friends when we are adults. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Each day should have a clearly marked emergency exit sign. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
The man was on his knees, trying to retrieve each of his ugly words that were now scattered on the floor. But, of course, it was too late. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Every scowling face also contains the shapes of engaging smiles, just waiting to be released. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Some days, we just need to turn the quiet up. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
People overestimate the pleasure they’ll get from having more stuff. This does not apply to new rose bushes, crayons, or yarn stashes. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Sometimes, we need a few people in our lives who will calmly call our bluff. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
To whoever invented fantasy, redwood trees, and apple pie for breakfast: well done. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
A redwood tree sighs, tall, broad, contented. But the aspen tree has itchy feet—as winds blow, it bends, yearning to be a traveling man. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
The scent of rain, as an ancient redwood tree points to the first evening star. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Easy places in which to lose your mind: bakeries, bookstores, redwood forests, wild gardens. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Through the branches of a giant redwood tree already two thousand years old floats a magnificent butterfly, whose life is only two weeks. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Indigo shadows encourage tantalizing gossip in an orchard, while a tall redwood throws poems on the forest floor. The nightlife of trees. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
He stood in stillness in an ancient grove of redwood trees, waiting for a wandering poem to land on him. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
There’s a beach whose waves lap near an ancient grove of redwoods—during a full moon, it throws up wishing shells. Let them lie, he told me. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
“Most poems are never finished,” (I was defensive). He sighed: “No, most poems are never started.” – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
Yearning for sun and starlight, roses and winter, together. – Dr.SunWolf, professorsunwolf.com
