ROBERT FROST'S HOUSE

In a woken July landscape
peering into a bard's pastime
of my own boyhood's journey
to light my moody way
into the Derry neighborhood
of my annual Franconia pilgrimage
bicycling on the sunlit grass
on unlit roads
in memory of a folk language
heard from burdock
in New Hampshire orchards
which spoke to me
as a critic abdicating
his silences clocks out
in the solitude of a tree
from the off the cuff Frost voice
of a poet recording for us
his mood of running words
as we catch
a passing elemental sprite
of neon butterflies
and bright birds
rewarding all who visit here
until a thousand guests arrive
from dawn in the rough here
still enlightens from solitude
a choice all through the year.