It never snows where I live. I had never been to the woods on a snowy evening. But the dream of Frost made me write about it. Which Frost? Jack or Robert! I don’t know exactly. Being Frostbeaten isn’t such a small thing to me. It is within me. Somehow it defines the real me or the depiction of my poems.
As I muse over the verses of Robert Frost, whose name conjures with the wintry landscapes. I see him as a metaphorical kin to Jack's icy realm. My thoughts mingle with this subtle theme. His words are like a trove of nature's serene yet stark truths of utmost beauty and self discovery.
Sometimes, it resonates though the snowflakes that speak of the strangers who are kin to my realm of dream. I desperately sink into a dilemma, a dance of dual Frosts—one of myth, one of literature—both distant but earnestly desired.
I see it as a canvas of white, untouched novelty by the colors of my reality. It's that silence which I've never heard of. But I can't ignore the call! It is such a chill that I've never felt, a slumbering earth I've never witnessed. In my mind's eye, I see the world swathed in snow, a blanket that softens, quiets, transforms. I imagine the crunch underfoot, the crystal breath of morning, the solemnity of a world paused.
Yet, here I am; afore you, a poet of the sun-kissed soil, writing odes to a winter's kiss I've never known. Though my pen hesitates but the tentative notion of Frostbeaten does not let me sleep. My unruly pen dances across the page, crafting stanzas that reach for the cold embrace of 'Frostbeaten.'
Am I not a dreamer, conjuring Frost from the dew? Wish me finding solace in the thought that the snow may never grace my door, its essence lives within the ink that flows—a testament to the powerful words to traverse the realms of experience. I wish to touch the untouchable, to know the unknowable by the intrinsic gleam of Frost! Which one, Jack or Robert?
Beneath this reflection, I find beauty in the absence of love in the longing. The two Frosts, Jack and Robert, become my muses to my ever landlocked soul! They are certainly guiding my verse across the snowy expanse of imagination, leaving footprints on the parchment that will never melt away.
The dream is done; and the thoughts are mingled; the page is printed and the Frostbeaten poem is written!
With💙
©chrysanthemum
