The muse visits me rarely, particularly where poetry is concerned. That said, sometimes I retreat into language, meter, and allegory to move through a morass of conflicting opinions (some mine, some belonging to friends) and come out the other side having made some progress. The results are generally mixed but committing to a poem can be like committing to a decision and hopefully that will be the case today.
Keep an eye out for two white blazes You were right when you said: "You liked me best the summer before we fell in love." When our flutter-hearted, weak-kneed greetings made inroads to my walled off mind; and all our words rhymed perfectly with dawn. Two years later I sat with the words you wrote. A single sheet of paper that meant more than all the empty promises we made. I made. Even now you don't know that I keep the phrase: "I saw the Agean in your eyes where I had not before" To remind me of what falling out of love feels like. Like inspiration. Like forgiveness. Like remembering the sweetness of summer fruit in a riot of falling snow. And the moment when sun breaks through a window When dreams rise up to meet the day and stubborn willful souls let truths sneak in. She was right - it is the lark. Still, this is how a life might feel: like warm blankets and the smell of sycamore trees. Or else, laughing at the darkened skies and longing for a taste of freezer plums. But I already know where that path winds. Past lost friends, sleepless nights, silly gods rendered divine. And the knowledge that I gave myself up to "dream of buttermilk biscuits" again. This all goes to say that Frost was wrong about the best way out. Sometimes, it is clearly marked.