Robert Frost, b. March 26, 1874

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.

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