Outside this quiltedcomfortable the fire sleeps within the last log, an emberwhisper like a accidental whistle. Beneath this doubledbunk from childhood resting in a small spaceheater’s embrace, I relive the day with Frost and all he had to give. Forty-one outstanding poems underlined uneven by my pen stand at attention in my collection trying to disguise their pride, they know their author wouldn’t approve. The leaves the stars the fields the snow these have received immortality in verse–though Frost might argue they posessed it already and it is us who most recently received it. And possibly there’s something there, a ratio or rule, or fancy of the universe.
Infinity is only received the moment it is given.
Frost enabled the seasons’ literary license in perhaps the same fashion the seasons enabled Frost. And too intertwined to resist playful comparison I hope the most tropical seasons enable my tan. I know they’ve enabled my love and they’ve definitely made easier lust, and I guess I can only ask as much.
Mr. Frost, thank you from the depths of my depths. I will surely reconsider all that you’ve considered in my presence without pretence and I’ll find more time to follow in your peaceful ways.
yours,
Clifton
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