The Seaside Where the Snow Fell is perhaps the most complex poem I have written.  There was a lot that I wanted to express when I thought about the words; and I wasn't sure how best to create the picture and feeling I sought, using the setting that inspired this particular project.  Its place, its forming, adequately depicts what I think we are all in some sense searching.  A certain peace.  I have no idea what decided long ago the most feasible way to govern and dictate a group of people-that their lives are productive, and bear some form of visible, workable compensation.  In dictate, I mean plotted out.  Because when I look at the global masterpiece which is economics today in comparison to earlier examples, the basics haven't really changed.  It's as if we are not simply compelled to labor aimlessly in hopes to achieve a peace of our wanting, we are caught, set into motion, by not one but many vicious cycles that tear at each other and effects us all the same.  The field of snow that I imagine is every one of us.  As it sits and settles after its own various, tormented trial, which begins well beyond our controlling, it rests the same, it feels the same and there is such an incredible calm once it's completed.  We all fight a very familiar struggle, yes, unique to us, its experience gathered separately, but, familiar.  We might not like each other; some of us continue to hate each other, but our pursuits: perhaps retirement, that position at work, the experiment, research, win, we all work tirelessly to achieve the same benefit in the end.  As I remember how it was taught to me a long time ago, there are no two flakes of snow that are exact.  It is a simple measure of curiosity that they should fit so perfectly after they've reached which ever field they happen to find.