Poetry
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stopping by
by Ryki Zuckerman
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(for poet Robert Frost who died in 1963)
the wind blew
his hair across his face,
as he squinted, snowblind,
†
in the brilliant cold of early January
and tried to tame the pages
and his eyes,
the world waiting for his new words,
his inaugural poem
for our fair young prince,
who we would lose
later the same year
frost left us;
the wind blew sparks of hope
into all eyes,
that day in 1961,
when frost, unable to see
in the snow glare,
recited, instead, from memory
“the gift outright”:
“the land was ours
before we were the land’s...”
the wind blows the old dream
across the face of despair,
the dream that was ours before
we were the dream’s,
some hollow melody
skips across the road we took
that led us to this precipice,
where we are still
at the edge of the woods
gazing up at the falling snow.
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