I Have A Plot, But Not Much

I Have A Plot, But Not Much Happens.

Language Is Remarkable, Except Under The Extreme Constraints Of Mathematics And Logic, It Never Can Talk Only About What It's Supposed To Talk About But Is Always Spreading Around.

When In Still Air And Still In Summertime A Leaf Has Had Enough Of This, It Seems To Make Up Its Mind To Go; Fine As A Sage Its Drifting In Detachment Down The Road.

I've Thought Of The Last Line Of Some Poems For Years And Tried Them Out, It Wouldn't Work Because The Last Line Was Much Too Beautiful For The Poem.

It May Be Said That Poems Are In One Way Like Icebergs: Only About A Third Of Their Bulk Appears Above The Surface Of The Page.