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I don't like poetry until I read some that I like.
In Two Tramps in Mud Time Robert Frost perfectly describes the weather here in Colorado these last few weeks:
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off the frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
Winter is only playing possum.
My mother bought this thick book, The collected poems, complete and unabridged The Poetry of Robert Frost to send to her mother. It is inscribed "For Mamma, Valentine's Day 1982 and while I was reading the above poem an unsent greeting card fell out, a card meant for my grandmother.
The note inside says:
"This book is for a little variety for you to read. Robert Frost and Ernest Hemingway strike my fancy for short stories and poetry."
Either my mother never sent the book to my grandmother, or she got it back after grandma died in 1984. Most likely is my mother was ready to send the book, but got to reading it and never mailed it. One of her favorite expressions was 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions.'
