I Wish I Could Press Snowflakes In

I Wish I Could Press Snowflakes In A Book Like Flowers.

Looking At The Sky Last Night And The Moon In The First Fresh Dark, Just A Few Stars, Bright With Their Cold Flares, I Had A Little Crumpled Thought, 'oh Well, The Moon. It's Just Another Place Like California.' One's Imagination Drags Its Feet As We Are Inexorably Hauled Into The Future.

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)

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

However, If A Poem Can Be Reduced To A Prose Sentence, There Can't Be Much To It.