Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.
A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.
One tends to write beyond what's needed
What are the questions you wish to ask?
I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.
In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively