for Robert Frost’s birthday, I wrote him a love poem…

by deb Ewing

I’ve said before I don’t venerate poetry. Poetry should not be placed on a pedestal, because it lives and breathes with us. I recorded myself reading this piece while sitting in my doctor’s office waiting room. The background noise is the television, the nurse, another patient.

Robert Lee Frost was born in San Francisco, California March 26, 1874. He died January 29, 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, two years before I was born. He’s remembered for a small-town, almost rural perspective in his poetry, but if you want a real feel for the man I recommend Robert Frost on Writing, by Elaine Barry. I’m not even gonna tell you.

Today we commemorate the birth of Robert Frost. Be careful what you say if you mention him to me, because how you feel about Frost’s work will impact how I feel about you. Don’t be too shiny, but don’t gloss over. It’s okay to say you don’t know anything about his work. Seek it out.

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