Poetry

Frost, with all his words, was a lucky soul always torn away by discovering the world that like a mirage
has movement in time that is relatable.
Old time, the child and newness, adulthood, challenges for survival, gullible, the amazingly truthful and simplistic goals
of true human happiness, frailness, the amazing unyielding incongruity that is somehow acceptable and rationalized, but never truly makes any sense.
And always, the past. The past is now, in the past, as the winds blow, and as my own youth has changed all the adorned golden
promises like an old barn.
We need more like him. More readers too.