Marge Piercy

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles...

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again.

You are built to pull a cart,
to lift a heavy load and bear it,
to haul up the long slope, and so
am I, peasant bodies, earthy, solid
shapely dark glazed clay pots that can
stand on the fire.

Live as if you like yourself, and it may happen.

The real writer is one who really writes.

Life is the first gift, love is the second, and understanding the third.

If you want to be listened to, you should put in time listening.