Poet Jane Hirshfield said "... the feeling I have about poem-writing (is) that it is always an exploration, of discovering something I didn't already know.  Who I am shifts from moment to moment, year to year.  What I can perceive does as well.  A new poem peers into mystery, into whatever lies just beyond the edge of knowable ground."

I bring a different poem to the writing classes each week, not only to inspire but to introduce new poets to the group members.

Snowflakes by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,     
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and bare,     
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,       
Silent, and soft, and slow       
Descends the snow. 
Even as our cloudy fancies take     
Suddenly shape in some divine expression, 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession,       
The troubled sky reveals       
The grief it feels. 
This is the poem of the air,     
Slowly in silent syllables recorded; 
This is the secret of despair,     
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,       
Now whispered and revealed       
To wood and field.

~ in the public domain

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