Yesterday, January 29, marked the anniversary of Robert Frost passing from this world. He died in 1963. I was a couple months shy of thirteen. His passing was emotional for me because I loved what he did. His poetry was accessible to me. It was also way beyond me, but the stories he told were right THERE. The depth of his thoughts and vision wouldn't strike me for years, but I suspected something there. I just didn't have enough of a world view to find it. Besides, the world was all about me in those days. Sometimes, it still is and I miss things that I shouldn't miss. In this poem to honor Mr. Frost I've tried to emulate some of that for which he was famous and of which he was the master craftsman. I have no such pretensions. Hope it rings something in you.
Personal Transport
A steaming sip of fragrant tea
rouses mornings wrapped in fog,
walking beside the plumed dog
across a plain of memories,
calling the names of old
acquaintances, some deceased,
somehow puts my heart at ease
and draws me back into the fold.
The dog tugs freely at his leash,
reminding me gently of his need,
so I slow and pay him heed,
and wear the streetlamp halo I’m beneath.
The fog is silver, cold, and mute,
while I am upright, mulling there
adrift inside the familiar where
I cannot recognize my own wet boots
through my vague cosseted history
that ebbs and flows in this swirling fog,
yet dances like a happy dog
against the leash of mystery.
