A Response to Frost’s “Mending Wall” Sorry I weren’t in a talking mood when we was fixing the wall. I was pretty wore out from helping Hiram cut stove wood after his boy sawed off his hand and died and my son’s wife run off again. Don’t think Amy ever will git over losing that baby. But I don’t like to go on about it. You’ve had your own troubles.
A few weeks ago after a faculty meeting, one of my departmental colleagues and I hopped into my brown Subaru (still sporting the “Make America Great Again” bumper sticker if you’re wondering) and headed off to meet some other colleagues at the local brew pub. As we drove along, my friend told me about a home-improvement headache she was contending with after a serious wind storm hit Colorado Springs earlier
New England holds its antique charms for such a one as me. The woods, the waves, the poets’ graves call pilgrims seasonally. The village green in Amherst dreams of Dickinson and Frost. The shades of these speak poetry in rhymes sublime and soft. But double Concords, Salems, too, plus devious round-abouts conspire to witch my waxing moods and ground my happy muse. A Rockies girl’s too straight and plain to
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The
