Robert Frost was dead the day I was born
and most of the days since, before that
he was old. In the folds and creases
of my mind, I see him glaring
into the cold January sun, his hair
white and wisping – a calamity of poetry
and one last winter.

I watched him step away to tea
with important people that knew how
to rule – he took no care
except walk gingerly – then off
into the shadow of an office
I hear he leaned against a resolute desk
shared a thought, or two, on humanity
then disappeared back to New Hampshire.

These are not choises, they are happenstance.
I am disappointed to have missed the path
he walked.