Two hundred-plus pages of spare poetic words, straight from between the couch cushions - because, sometimes, you just have to dig for words. Words I chew on curling my tongue around them. Tart and sweet at once as I search for the perfect dash - smelling of Spring and the potential in manure. They dance in my nose, causing me to ask myself: What is it that you're craving? (A fried bologna sandwich). I am transfixed by the twists in their form. Some long and awkward, others short and to the point. A drop out poet might call them "right on." Ink stains the page in familiar patterns and I remember back to the time before I could read them. Where they were like great mysteries. Finding joy in encoding them like crosswords I play with now on Sundays with green tea, blueberries, and Life cereal. (We serve pulpy citrus juice and kisses at exactly 11 a.m.) It's then that I wonder, how did I ever live without them? They wake me in the heart of night, begging as I reach for my glasses and purple pen. Rain checking them into the page. "I can hear you. Yes, I will look you up. Yes. I will call back Monday" when the kids are off to school and the house is still. To do. To do. I finger them, chasing their strong lines and whimsy, blissful. (Never one afraid to stare out a window daydreaming). They are fuzzy and warm. They understand, agree, like childhood friends living parallel lives and hopelessly waiting for Mondays where they'll play with words... ***ALL PROCEEDS FROM THIS BOOK GO TO BENEFIT MENTAL WELLNESS AND THE NATIONAL ALLIANCE FOR MENTAL ILLNESS***