New England Poet

No subterfuge disguised what he would say; his poems deal with ordinary things: a farmer in the meadow pitching hay; a thrush that from the forest softly sings a requiem to light; a broken wall; a ladder propped against an apple tree; the rime upon a pond; the first snowfall; two roads diverging, one to mystery. Philosophy and wit entwine, a thread that draws me to him still. I understand my haunted desert places and am led to seek and find my own true promised land. Oh tree that sheltered him when nights were still, stand guard beyond my darkened windowsill.

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