Thursday, April 7, 2011
F is for First Things First, and Frost
Today is the birthday of my beloved Steve. I am shouting out to him even though he never reads my blog. Blog reading is just not his thing. But, you never know... there's always a first time waiting in the wings. So, Happy Birthday to the baddest Bad Man I know!
It is also the birthday of my eldest nanny kid, Jonathan. Jonathan does occasionally read my blog, so, Happy Birthday to you, Dondin! It seems impossible that it was 24 years ago that we met - what a fascinating thing to watch you grow from the six year old boy I once walked to the bus stop. We've both lived an entire lifetime or two (or three) since then.
Frost... Robert Frost, that is. He's my second favorite poet - Sandburg being my favorite. He had that keen ability (that I so desire as a writer) that made his poems accessible enough for anyone to read, and yet deep enough for any intellect. His work is timeless, spanning all ages and generations, and encompassing all walks of life. Most people are familiar with his poems The Road Not Taken and Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.
I'm choosing to share here one of my favorite of Frost's poems, The Sound of the Trees. I know that sound well, that whispered promise of... more. I love what he says here, "I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice..." Those words never fail to stir my gypsy heart. But, read it and make your own dance with it.
The Sound of the Trees
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
See you tomorrow, Dear Readers.
Posted by Barb Black at 6:00:00 AM