One has only to set a loved human being against the fact that we are all in peril all the time to get back a sense of proportion. What does anything matter compared to the reality of love and its span, so brief at best, maintained against such odds?
The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.
In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.
It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.
Light is snow sifted / To an abstraction.
We only keep what we lose.