EPIGRAMS
The road is not lengthened. The road is not made brief whether you laugh or fill it with grief.
Whether you know nothing or know it all and more Death knows your address and can find your door.
LOVE (excerpt)
I love your slender blue veined hands worn thin, your fragile wrinkled skin, your sweet face, the way your shoulders slope under your shawl and a thousand cares.
I love the dreams of olden days that you stitch into your knitting as you sit remembering the past: the road ablaze with the Armenian sun, the bell tower
of the monastery calling as if it still clocks our hours from afar. And in your eyes the memory of my father in love and hoping to meet you on the village path again.