I have known summer least
and loved it best, of all seasons—so swollen
and drowsy
in my toughest cradle—I nearly missed it.
It was as I grew
that its usefulness shriveled, budding vacant,
becoming the great weight on me (on us)
that turns.
I have grass, and insects singing
I have
the mad bliss of remembering, completely,
the disentanglement of childhood.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
Desert Places
by Robert Frost
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
