Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it ―Robert Frost
In autumn chill
And pass the way
To our lonely hill.
I hesitate,
Then think I’ll spy
Upon our lives
In days gone by.
But who am I
To retrace old steps
And climb up roots
To a broken fence?
Sommer’s hill
Is steep and still
And bends the birches
Up the hill
Peeling back
White brittle sheets
Where I wrote you poems
With a charred fire stick
We kept them
In an old dead tree
For you and I
And posterity
Many years
Have come between
And tears and time
Have wiped them clean
I’m often tempted
To look and see
But to find them gone
Would be disappointing
I try to think
As I go past
The lifeless tree
Would let them last
But I’d rather visit
In my thoughts
Than climb the hill
And end up lost.