Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Poetry Wednesday


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.

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