Thoughts

So I felt inclined to buy a poetry book after dad made me less cynical and more ponderous and such. I bought "The best poems of the english language: from chaucer through robert frost" by Harold Bloom. It was more daunting than expected, and has a lot more authors that I don't recognize than I thought as well. But perusing the authors I DO recognize, I came across some 'easy' poetry by Robert Frost. And maybe because it is Robert Frost, and maybe for other reasons...whatever, take it worth a grain of salt, but I found this one to have some meaning in my life as it may or may not pertain to dad. As I am writing this, I also have that thought that I so often have, "...maybe I need to simmer down with sharing so many thoughts I have about dad..." In any case, I have written this much, and I googled the poem and copied and pasted it, so I have gone to too much trouble NOT to post this. All this rambling and you still have to read the poem, try to figure out how I am finding meaning, then, before your imagination has been exhausted on my warped sense, maybe apply some Frost to your life or find meaning in his words somehow for you. OR! just wordlessly tell me to shut up and go on with your Christmas Eve.

The Wood-Pile by Robert Frost

Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.