After "A Late Walk" by Robert Frost

29 November 2022

My walk is later, yours
is later still, the animus the same,
no time until we reconcile. This
winter carries history, this harvest
has a name (it's you). I warrant that
the aftermath dishevelled all of truth.
But there's no matter, so they say.
Who'd even try to go some other way.
Perhaps a strong-voiced bird will rise
and sing another day.