The Embryo of Time If only stars grew on trees like moss, we could use them as pillows for peace, and pass them out around the world. Or...

I often wonder about dying. The stage lures and terrifies, Fire and ice on the same night

A poem by Tony Zurlo There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)

I part my hair behind, but the streaks of gray (TS Eliot) expose an imperfect comb-over of my globe of wisdom that shines in the light.