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
I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.
However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.
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