When I go for a walk in the wood,
To catch the mood of a flowered path,
I don’t set a ruler on the routes,
Seeking a line that is straight and good,
Or ask, What is the quickest way to do it?
No, not since I learned a different math.
I ease my feet into comfy boots,
Firmly laced with proper knots,
And stroll: I think nothing but slow thoughts
And go sauntering through it.
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Author:
pWc (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 29th, 2024 10:57
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem uses a form invented by Robert Frost, in his poem "A Time to Talk".
- Category: Nature
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments1
A great metaphor and very nicely worded.
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