He says he wants to go
Into the woods.
To be in the green spaces
Where Frost's thoughts
Were dusted with gold.
So we go.
We lift our knees
To clear the drifts,
Dip under a needled arch.
Enter this hushed place.
He flies ahead
On a snowy path laced with
Frozen red leaves.
I hear a ripple-
A water song.
The notes hang
In the hemlocks
Draped in snow.
I'd like to see him
Standing there
With his old hand
Cupping a stubbled chin
Shoulder to shoulder
With my son.
Peering down
At their reflections
Frozen there,
In the glass of Hyla Brook.
Written By: Patricia Fowler 1/08
rate
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 24
You're deft with words, know what to leave out and the methods and material of Down On The Farm are part of what I'm trying to preserve.
Herb L
oldtimewriter.com
Beautiful. "We love the things we love for what they are"... and I love this poem! Thank you.