Poetry Archives Bio

after frost

August 13, 2018

Whose woods these are I know too well.
Her house is in the forest dell;
She will not watch me strain, deranged,
To make her woods fill up with swell.

Her little dog must think it strange
To see us thusly here arranged
Between the sheets and blankets, tranced,
The longest morning sits unchanged.

She makes a little song and dance
To ask for food by any chance.
The only other sound's the bake
Of bagels in the stove, askance.

Her bed is narrow, soft an ache,
But I have promises to break,
And hours to go before I wake,
And hours to go before I wake.