Reading Frost
"You come too. You come too." It was almost a rhythm as I sat on a gray August day flipping the pages of a battered Frost. The setting of this impromptu beat was a hidden alcove in a second hand book store. Curiously, i was seated by the window where thin strands of sunlight strained to give me warmth. Yet cool air buffeted me from invisible corners, as if the alcove dictated climate control within its territory with a faint insistence.
And Frost..? He was sandwiched ,first between the " Song of Hiawatha" and " Sappho" and then trembled in my rather large white palms. It felt like a repressed voice had suddenly broken through and was clearing its phlegmatic throat to break into a song. But it could only murmur in soft tones.
And yet each note was strident as it said, " You come too . You come too." Not to the fields of pastoral rural America. But maybe to a promise. Its always better to come to one of those promises than something concrete. The problem with concrete is it is hard and it shows up in sunlight all those little unshapely pockmarks that were invisible from afar. While a promise ..ah! Well that's the stuff legends are made of i.e perfection.
Remarkable is it not?! Sometimes one makes promises to oneself and sometimes to others. And one walks miles . Through high mountains and deep forests. Makes choices that inextricably tie him to paths never walked before.Where there are no U turns. And in the midst of all this walking when one loses oneself, the voices of all who have gone before on that promised path, towards that promised land gently urge one on .. you come too .. you come too.
And Frost..? He was sandwiched ,first between the " Song of Hiawatha" and " Sappho" and then trembled in my rather large white palms. It felt like a repressed voice had suddenly broken through and was clearing its phlegmatic throat to break into a song. But it could only murmur in soft tones.
And yet each note was strident as it said, " You come too . You come too." Not to the fields of pastoral rural America. But maybe to a promise. Its always better to come to one of those promises than something concrete. The problem with concrete is it is hard and it shows up in sunlight all those little unshapely pockmarks that were invisible from afar. While a promise ..ah! Well that's the stuff legends are made of i.e perfection.
Remarkable is it not?! Sometimes one makes promises to oneself and sometimes to others. And one walks miles . Through high mountains and deep forests. Makes choices that inextricably tie him to paths never walked before.Where there are no U turns. And in the midst of all this walking when one loses oneself, the voices of all who have gone before on that promised path, towards that promised land gently urge one on .. you come too .. you come too.
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