Brenda Sutton Rose quotes:

As he farmed, hard labor left his hands callused, the sun bleached his hair, his face leathered, and his heart throbbed with music.

I could go to a dozen houses, scrape away the dirt, and find his footprints, but my own prints evaporated before I ever looked back.

A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.