Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.–Robert Frost
Last year on Frost’s birthday: A Prayer in Spring
And for this year:
A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
Ah, yes, I can always stop whatever for a visit with a friend–for better or for worse.