Summers with Frost


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I did not see a rushing tide to my epiphany.

Just a babbling brook.

A natural lodging place.

Where I skinned my heart…

skinned my knees.

Even then the wonderment of

‘who owns these woods…I think I will never know.’

A circle confined by pine.

Flashlights spinning a victor’s kiss…

and, true, it would never find.

A masquerade of cowboy and Indian by the poetry palace…

Barefoot, carefree and calloused.

Mystery grew where the wild things go.

Or, so the ghostly, ghastly, tale would be told.

Decades later,

a lazy women’s lackluster carving of wood.

A dated damsels attempt at,

would have, should have, still could.

All thoughtful handmade devices…designed up in the notch.

Gentle moments flashing back to my childhood playground.

Across from Mr. Frost.

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