Spare enough for frozen
flower branches to scratch
the icy kitchen window,
rain-soaked goldenrod to brush
against her dress,
evenings of lost, tender fears
spying down the empty lane,
long, hot afternoon delays,
awaiting a dry spell to take up
the mowing, the mending, the swinging.
Wide open, ever-joyful tedium.
The birches down the pasture
now stand too broad and stiff
for anything but looking on.
Here, there, a spider poses a question,
a brook hides underground,
a faded blue aster flower
waits in the headless aftermath,
a breeze holds its rushing breath —
all lonely for your witnessing.
My brother and I had the opportunity to visit Robert Frost’s farm in Derry, New Hampshire, last week. Lovely place.