The poetry was ours before he passed away.
He wrote poems past eighty-six and a day.
Before he was a farmer. Still a poet
In Derry N.H., in Beaconsfield,
But he was ours, still colonial,
Confessing what we held hidden deep inside,
Confessing with what we would/could not say.
Something we held back that made us weak
Until he brought it out in poet’s light
We no longer withheld in finally knowing
And found salvation in poet’s pen.
Such as we are he showed us outright
(the deed of gift was many poems writ)
To our souls sharply realized inward,
But still truthful, heartfelt, naked,
Such gift he was, such as he became.

(Inspired by “The Gift Outright”)

That would be Robert Frost. First published at the age of 38.

Tell Mrs. Crabby all!

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