By Robert Frost
I walked down alone Sunday after church
To the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the birch
He said I could have to bush my peas.
The sun in the new-cut narrow gap
Was hot enough for the first of May,
And stifling hot with the odor of sap
From stumps still bleeding their life away.
The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill
Wherever the ground was low and wet,
The minute they heard my step went still
To watch me and see what I came to get.
Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—
All fresh and sound from the recent axe.
Time someone came with cart and pair
And got them off the wild flower’s backs.
They might be good for garden things
To curl a little finger round,
The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings,
And lift themselves up off the ground.
Small good to anything growing wild,
They were crooking many a trillium
That had budded before the boughs were piled
And since it was coming up had to come.
--------
I did not have an exciting Thursday, just got some stuff done and pondered my escape plan for when Trump sabotages the election by making it impossible to vote by mail -- at least now I understand why my packages are taking more than two weeks to get here from two states over -- and uses his private police force to stay in office.
We watched most of the Nats game, then after dinner we watched Ford vs Ferrari, which in many ways wasn't my kind of movie -- I'm not into cars and someone always dies in an accident in racing movies -- but I appreciated how much the filmmakers hate the Ford higher-ups; I can't root for Henry Ford's grandson. Some frogs from the C&O Canal:
No comments:
Post a Comment