I Do Not Usually Revise Much, Though

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.

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

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

What Are The Questions You Wish To Ask?

A Nothing Day Full Of Wild Beauty .... Little Fish Stream By, A River In Water.