Ted Kooser

Mike Forsberg's images give us bright openings onto a world. . . . Here on the Great Plains both people and trees and everything else are in some way shaped by wind and weather. This book, too, has been shaped by where it comes from, and that's just a part of its beauty.

Now the seasons are closing their files_x000D_ on each of us, the heavy drawers_x000D_ full of certificates rolling back_x000D_ into the tree trunks, a few old papers_x000D_ flocking away. Someone we loved_x000D_ has fallen from our thoughts,_x000D_ making a little, glittering splash_x000D_ like a bicycle pushed by a breeze._x000D_ Otherwise, not much has happened;_x000D_ we fell in love again, finding_x000D_ that one red feather on the wind.

This evening, I sat by an open window and read till the light was gone and the book was no more than a part of the darkness.

Sometimes you sense how faithfully your life is delivered, even though you can't read the address.

a happy birthday this evening, I sat by an open window and read till the light was gone and the book was no more than a part of the darkness. I could easily have switched on a lamp, but I wanted to ride the day down into night, to sit alone, and smooth the unreadable page with the pale gray ghost of my hand