Written Winter 1999
Today I visited Robert Frost’s grave.
You cleaned snow off the stone,
with your bare hands, to uncover his name.
Below that was engraved:
“He had a lovers quarrel with the world”.
I snapped a photo of the site
just before you bared him to the sky again.
You were standing at the base of an inconspicuous blanketed slab,
that hardly made an impression in the powdery snow.
Disconcerted by death’s quiet sleep,
You began to sweep, with your hands and then your forearm,
when your hands began to freeze.
“Here’s his wife. Here’s his son.” You said.
Finally, when you reached his name at the top,
you touched your hands to the stone reverently.
We passed by it, at first.
I turned back and called to you.
“It’s back there, at that arrow.”
A hand painted, little yellow arrow on green board,
stood crookedly pointing, like an after thought – a terse indicator for the tourist.
“Here it is.”
I took another picture of you standing at the foot of it,
for our commemoration ceremony and you one of me.
Two Frost lovers, who read his poems at twilight
and in the middle of a sleepless night to one another,
Meeting at this point in life, for inspiration and meaning,
in an otherwise haunted world,
that we have cause to cling to with our wounded souls,
as grave sweepers,
Stood silently smiling into a camera lens.
Looking for our future.
****************** In Memory of Paul Mooney *******************
a gentle soul, a poet, a father,
and builder of fine houses