When One's Not Writing Poems

Try Making A Poem As If It Were A Table, Clear And Solid, Standing There Outside You.

Innocence Is Not Pure So Much As Pleased, Always Expectant, Bright-eyed, Self-enclosed

When We Admit Our Vulnerability, We Include Others. If We Deny It, We Shut Them Out.

I Can Understand People Simply Fleeing The Mountainous Effort Christmas Has Become... But There Are Always A Few Saving Graces And Finally They Make Up For All The Bother And Distress.

Light Is Snow Sifted / To An Abstraction.