Something there is in our culture that doesn’t like
a poet. Not for long, at least; we are quick to judge
her or him passé. They have left not one memorial
stone on another. Critics have banished into hiding
the once-vaunted bard, to please the yelping dogs.
But on this spring day I bring him near, and meet
with muse to read a line. And his thoughts borrow.
We have a massive gap to span between as we go.
I intone his spell to bring into balance his achievements,
my attempts, “Stay your critiques ‘til my back is turned!”
His poetry is lovely, dark and deep.
As a poet I grow I will his wintered, easy wind
and downy flake so closely keep.
The etching Frost so closely keep.
March 26 — the birthday of Robert Frost.