Poetry Wednesday

August

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

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast 

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.