A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.
The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate
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.
One tends to write beyond what's needed
Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.