To be a Pagan is to live in a world that is alive, all around you. Trees and stones and rivers have lives and spirits of their own. Gods send omens in the rustle of leaves, the advertisement in the mailbox, the song on the radio. I called this book Pagan Poetry from the Back of the Heart because so many of us write these poems in solitude, not for any other eyes, just scribbled down because we saw and felt and had to do something. These poems are from the part of the heart not often seen, the reclusive part that writes in the wee hours and then carefully saves what may never be seen. We tuck them away, between the old outworn toys from our childhood and the travel brochures for the trip we''ll never take. One day, perhaps someone will want them. Who knows

To be a Pagan is to live in a world that is alive, all around you. Trees and stones and rivers have lives and spirits of their own. Gods send omens in the rustle of leaves, the advertisement in the mailbox, the song on the radio. I called this book Pagan Poetry from the Back of the Heart because so many of us write these poems in solitude, not for any other eyes, just scribbled down because we saw and felt and had to do something. These poems are from the part of the heart not often seen, the reclusive part that writes in the wee hours and then carefully saves what may never be seen. We tuck them away, between the old outworn toys from our childhood and the travel brochures for the trip we''ll never take. One day, perhaps someone will want them. Who knows

To be a Pagan is to live in a world that is alive, all around you. Trees and stones and rivers have lives and spirits of their own. Gods send omens in the rustle of leaves, the advertisement in the mailbox, the song on the radio. I called this book Pagan Poetry from the Back of the Heart because so many of us write these poems in solitude, not for any other eyes, just scribbled down because we saw and felt and had to do something. These poems are from the part of the heart not often seen, the reclusive part that writes in the wee hours and then carefully saves what may never be seen. We tuck them away, between the old outworn toys from our childhood and the travel brochures for the trip we''ll never take. One day, perhaps someone will want them. Who knows