FROST FARM

Tonight we sit in the old barn,

Sturdy gray beams, uneven floor

I can imagine barn swallows once,

Flitting around high in the rafters,

Miniature blue rockets making nests

Near the ceiling, safe and serene.

The old path by the barn,

For so long used only to the traffic

Of horses, now a slick black raceway

Between what pass these days for cities,

A noisy road proving beyond doubt

That all progress is not necessarily good.

Can you hear the long ago owner,

Now beloved, then just a farmer/teacher?

Sowing words, spare New England words

That bloom with such fearful meaning

As to make us, his bumbling acolytes

Despair, lost far beyond our ability.

Yet we try, with the big barn doors

Open to the August breeze. We orate,

Versify, word to stanza, bringing forth

Our meager offerings from humble stores

Emulating the long ago farmer/teacher,

Though emulate is all we can ever hope to do.

We can’t equal.

Chip Bergeron

12 August, 2010