FOR ROBERT FROST (FINAL REVISION)

 

FOR ROBERT FROST

as a child I did wonder about what the grownups meant

by "a hard frost"

frost is not good for living things

any frost would be hard enough

and now I feel a conversation with Robert Frost

is coming up in the glazed over wings of my imaginary playhouse

or the wings of angels are scripted in frost

on my immemorial window panes, ghost windows

gleam and suddenly I say its much the same thing to say

gazing out at a shivery window tree

I've lived through apple frosts today a thousand times over

he would understand, no second guessing

and so I think of him and the kindred gift of the land

in all his poetry:

the snowy harness shake of his horse stamping

the cold woods down and soundless, the snow words

forming in a kind of winter storm warning, gloaming

I wonder if he is still making conversational poems

in Heaven, if there is maple sugar there. or if

the birch tree swings still dazzle in the ice storms

brittle and shimmering;

I know there are no fences there

earth's the right place for frost

I hear him say

for all the apple orchard ladders

leaning against the winesap, infinite skies.

wishing they may be bestarred, at least,

occasionally, lit up like Christmas trees.

in such a way, the fir trees, spangled.

mary angela douglas 5 february 2023;8 august 2023

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1Mary Angela Douglas