Words Should Wander And Meander.

They Say That Shoulder Blades Are Where Your Wings Were, When You Were An Angel," She Said. "they Say They're Where Your Wings Will Grow Again One Day.

She Finds Tales Everywhere, In Grains Of Sand She Picks Up From The Garden, In Puffs Of Smoke That Drift Out From The Chimneys Of The Village, In Fragments Of Smooth Timber Or Glass In The Jetsam. She Will Ask Them, "where Did You Come From? How Did You Get Here?" And They Will Answer Her In Voices Very Like Her Own, But With New Lilts And Squeaks And Splashes In Them That Show They Are Their Own.

When You Grow Up", I Said, "do You Ever Stop Feeling Little And Weak?" "no," She Says. "there's Always A Little Frail And Tiny Thing Inside, No Matter How Grown-up You Are.

And What Is Wrong With Playing With Words? Words Love To Be Played With, Just Like Children Or Kittens Do!

The Dead Are Often Known To Eat 27 And 53