He walked dreaming rambling short stories (six-word stories, to be precise).

A hike and a poem met
along the less-traveled path
one blue sunny day
and almost missed one another
when the poet lost his way
while the hiker took a nap.
Words whispered in the cool breeze
that lifted and dissolved thin cloud patches
rolling in from the pacific ocean, 
smelling like sage, pine, and dirt.
carefully pausing under an old cedar
chained to a dirty picnic table,
pretending to feed the poet's muse
with the crunchy beat of footsteps,
dangerously slow, like Billie Holiday
singing Good Morning Heartache
Pres smiles, shakes his porkpie hat
Listen to the groovy bass line 
if you don't believe me
like these words in the wind,
wicked, gorgeous and betrayed 
by meaning, reason, blink and 
they vanish like the crooning 
of crows circling over a carcass
in the azure sky, fading before 
the low winter sun reaches 
the end of the road.
Is this what you call a poem? 
the hiker awakes and protests
the poet, silent, has found the trail 
but is at a loss for words.

Raymond Queneau puts it very nicely, in a poem entitled “Un rhume qui n’en finit pas”(a never-ending cold)–somewhat timely, given the pandemic–which I read sitting at a picnic table leaning against a cedar tree, under an azure sky. 

Quand on examine le vaste monde
ses beautés, ses tristesses et ses aléas
on se demande on se demande
à quoi rime tout celà

When you take a close look at the great wide world
its beauty, its sadness and its perils
you might ask you might ask
is there any reason or rhyme to it
(my translation. Note that it does rhyme in French, in a way I couldn't duplicate in English, but don't read anything into it)