Wednesday, July 8, 2015

An hour on "Robert Frost Trail".

Tepid madness of life expressed
Squalls for me and thing suppressed
I trembled on each step I took
To stand where the poet stood.

On untouched turf he oft rode
For rhymes in spoors and every nest
Many with endearing hearts appear
As flames within the breadloaf disappear.

Wayside along the winding roads
A thread of Frost, a scribbled trail
Which rode amid the hearts and words
As spirited horses in autumn woods.

Through rusting leaves an hour spent
Chuckles of gnomes hushed in breeze
While riotous cicadas on crickets rode
The spell of this wayside shrine.  

Winged dreams from a poetic crest
Will always find a branch to rest
The Road not taken poignant though
Stood speechless on a paths so known.

Only an untouched forest does know
Its way to shine in limericks though
New born leaves with a dream so new
Was caught in age old poesy though.

What if I walked the forest breeze
Into the woods with broken trees
Will rhymes of breaths weave a trail
Though winters cover it with snow.

~ A

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