My Prose Is Turgid, It Just Hasn't

Time Hates Love, Wants Love Poor,/but Love Spins Gold, Gold, Gold From Straw.

I Like To Use Simple Words, But In A Complicated Way.

I See The Shape Of The Poem Before I Start Writing, And The Writing Is Just The Process Of Arriving At The Shape.

If We Think Of What's Up Ahead, With Climate Change And Wars Over Water, It's Very Frightening.

Where I Lived - Winter And Hard Earth.i Sat In My Cold Stone Roomchoosing Tough Words, Granite, Flint,to Break The Ice. My Broken Heart -i Tried That, But It Skimmed,flat, Over The Frozen Lake.she Came From A Long, Long Way,but I Saw Her At Last, Walking,my Daughter, My Girl, Across The Fields,in Bare Feet, Bringing All Spring's Flowersto Her Mother's House. I Swearthe Air Softened And Warmed As She Moved,the Blue Sky Smiling, None Too Soon,with The Small Shy Mouth Of A New Moon.