Category: Robert Frost
-
Visitation
Even the spires of milkweed bend over in the low tumble of wind through the prairie, dry reeds tapping hollow on ancient gravestones. When I left you here, the ground was frozen and wet, with pelting sleet leaving a pebbled sheet on the grass, the canopy, the cars. How different it feels in August now,…
-
Intimacy
What I always wonder in a place like this is how many people have walked this ridge before, over how many centuries and what have they thought looking down, across, overhead into the trees, towards each other? What, that is different from my crowded thoughts right now? Where are you, earth? Someday, I will find…
-
Walk in woods
this morning I yearned to become that yellow leaf twirling down, catching an edge of the sun spinning past
-
Daywork
no rhythm no long, yearning stanzas no swinging scythe evening hued grasses a hurried social hour a stratagem a standing on laurels when perhaps resting would make more sense better still tossing them away no hidden beauty to unlock by stripping back aching facts of labor but something warm beats under all, wordless against words…
-
It is what comes after
Though in a world of doubt surrounded, our river plies, churns, hides its own error, misgiving, re-creation, courage of moment, witness borne, lost. Our hero beeches suffer demotion to floats, serve as fisheries, bubble up ripples, but if confrontation cannot be avoided, indeed, remains steadfast, they rise to bows, turns, diversions, reshaping even water, laying…
-
City river
How its surface hides the undulation on its bottom; how its edges spill over and are spilled over into. How as it is fed by another, the water tumbles, turns over broken concrete slabs; how herons perch there, oblivious. How when the tunnel overflows with rain, it releases a stench into the summer breeze that…
Poems from in between 