One of the most beautiful poems I have recently read is this:
a breezy august
sweater she wore bearing me
around my shoulders
The picture is perfect. The time stands still, projecting a feeling of emptiness, simultaneously reflecting the temperature gradient of late summer and a filial sensation of continuity and memory. The taste of decline and rebirth is represented in the imagery.
Unfortunately, the author has to have dropped an article in the second line to make the syllable count.
Yes, the people of the West can make small picture poems loaded with sense.