There is no time. We exist
in a white bowl stung
with light. The day
comes to us every minute.
Tonight we will walk
to the pond to skate.
There will be geese overhead
severing the night sky.
Music forms inside
the body. Cold moves the baton
like a lance.
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john mann poems 
This is a good poem. It just is. I have meta-criticism, however, that applies to this and many others of your poems. Sometimes, don’t see the point, unless there is a marketing point, in adhering to a form when there might be benefits from abandoning it. This poem successfully places me in a reverie, and there are images to savor and a lyrical flow which just begins to gain momentum. Like any trained monkey, at this point I’ve also noticed carefully counted stresses, visual shape and end-rhymes. I attempt to relate these to content and find I cannot, Then, Bang! It’s up against your self-imposed limit. I’m left wanting more, even as I admit that it’s a good poem. To me, “New Snow” functions as a good beginning to a longer poem. It provides setting and establishes a mood. Arnold’s “Dover Beach” uses the first half of his poem as a set up, and then he turns it.. I like that sort of game, although it demands a longer poem. Does anyone even have patience for that kind of thing any more? So, what we have here is yet another good John Mann poem. You’ve written hundreds. If I didn’t know that, perhaps I wouldn’t be waiting for you to break the mold.