A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.

青竹 云海 晨光 星夜 荷风 晴雪 秋山 听海 沙丘 森语 梅影 花野 听雨 晴窗 暮色 橘光