I heard that Robert Creeley died and I was sad about it because I have a lot of his books and I like them.
If you walk a certain route everyday that takes you past a stone wall and a chain link fence you might see markings, paint and scrapes come and go on the stone, and see weeds that grow up into the links of the fence.
Weeks, months go by and the marks on the stones change, the weeds get cut, trash builds up along the fence line. Sometimes you notice interesting patterns in the scrapes and in the pieces of weeds and trash.
Weeks, months go by, you notice that certain groups of patterns recur, almost like they are being put there with intention, although it doesn't strike you as too unlikely that you might think that and really you are trying to find patterns. Nature has a way of making interesting designs like that.
Weeks and months continue to go by and one day you take your route early and you happen to see a person walking away, putting scraping tools, paint and knives into their coat . You conclude that, yes, in fact, someone is marking those certain patterns where you have been looking
As you get closer to the area it still looks just natural but the same patterns are there again fresh, certain piles of paper, a piece of cardboard smacked against the fence, scrapes in the stone, paint chips, ribbons in the fence, a little mark on the stone that looks like writing.
That is like how Mr. Creeley's poetry felt and it meant a lot to me.