The brown tipped grass peeked through the snow -
With stems quite cold and forlorn.
The north gale came and so winds did blow
and nodded their heads in form.
As I stood there, wondering “Who am I”
and what should I tell you about myself
an angel touched my shoulder and said
“Excuse me sir,
If Heaven's path were made for one
and ne're a choice but to walk alone
then I wonder what should become
of my absence in God's lovely home…
Story book dreams, feathered seams,
glory finds comfort by two’s;
Zeros and ones, petticoat suns,
the best of life to lose……
The blackened burl of charred remains -
stands the gnarl of great walnut tree.
Stretching his arms into the blue -
as though his very life to plead.
The world didn’t stop – street lamp glowing –
throwing – hues of light upon the corner’s darkness.
Walked I – walked I – right on by –
lest the man say “You there, odd little man –
They don't tell you, you see
about the things
the inside things
the real things
I often felt that Robert Frost -
was in my own inflamed heart -
For when all else seemed harringly lost -
my pen had no trouble to start…
If ever I should fall in love,
t'would be a gal of your vortices -
the only hope I'd pray to find
is one without rigor mortises…
Within a moment, can solemn worry -
from a care-free life loving lore,
foresee the grieving wretch of me,
with the great loss of dear Elinore.