“Like a piece of ice on a hot stove a poem must ride on its own melting ... Read it a hundred times, it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.”
– Robert Frost
I almost always think of Frost’s poetry when I hear or see things in nature. This morning, unlike the bird that bothers Frost in his short poem below, the bird on our house was not creating music, but noise. It was a Flicker and it decided to “mark” its territory – or maybe it was to attract a mate – by drumming on our chimney with its beak.
After giving it some further
thought, I decided a bird on the roof is still better than no birds at
all. I just wish, like the bird Frost is
annoyed with in his poem, it would work on a little song to go along with the
percussion. For Saturday's Poem, here is Frost's,
A Minor Bird
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
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