Autumn binds poetry in its own withered leaves. – Terri Guillemets
The prime deaths of history star the textbooks like constellations of power. – Terri Guillemets
Autumn binds poetry in its own withered leaves. – Terri Guillemets
The prime deaths of history star the textbooks like constellations of power. – Terri Guillemets
Those we love and lose are always connected by heartstrings into infinity. – Terri Guillemets
The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps — does anyone know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumor that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning. – Rabindranath Tagore