One tends to write beyond what's needed

It is always pleasant to learn that someone takes an interest in a work which one enjoyed writing

I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.

Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

It seems to me that readers sometimes make the genesis of a poem more mysterious than it is (by that I perhaps mean, think of it as something outside their own experience)

A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.

What are the questions you wish to ask?