Stopping by Robert Frost

My family whom I thought I knew
It seems to me to be askew.
They may not notice my distress
Though signs of it reveal how true

The underlying feelings are
That cause me pain and only mar
My making sense of what divides
Despite the beauty near and far.

I try to give my thoughts some play
To see if any will allay
Those things that stubbornly resist
An open and inviting way

To probe the depth of family trust
To build again the bonds I must.
There is a distance I must go
There is a distance I must go.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

That hidden realm of mind,
So difficult to find
Because of thoughts cut short
Plans not achieved,
Blocked.

But that realm reveals itself with subtle radiance
Radiance, though, that shrouds the view
Of all that is the source of its strength.
What are the means to to see through that layer
To glimpse the inner workings
Enough to forge linkages
With at least some of its elements?

Dreams, desires, delusions,
Perhaps indulge one of these
To look for resonances, rhymes
That sound from within.

Regrets small and large
Have found safe harbor
Where they crowd out vessels
That contain more precious cargo
And prevent them from reaching port
Where they could unload
To provide the basis for how to inhabit
This new realm.
There would seem only two ways to get through: by force or by persuasion.
To destroy or displace those that are in the way, or
To co-opt enough of them to permit access.
There may be a third way, however:
By shining on each one of the regrets
The light of reason and understanding
So bright that it disappears.
Though the vessels with more precious cargo are not armed in the conventional sense,
They are armed with reason and understanding.
Is the light they generate enough to eliminate
The clutter of regrets and misunderstandings
Floating between them and
The realm of possibility?

The calm of the lake
Contains the possibilities
Of the not calm.
It is when such possibilities can emerge
As no other time permits.
The gentle lapping of the waves
The sometime indecision of the winds
The intense silence
Hint at more powerful directed streams of weather
Some rapid ruthless transformative
Some persistent raw corrosive
And at others, magical in their sublime combinations.

But all that is not calm
Cannot possibly hint at
These many other conditions.
Only calmness has the depth
To fathom the potential of a new balance
To discover elements
That open
What is entirely new.

Those supple hands
Their soft stirring
As she grasps for strands of material and meaning
Those hands that crafted such warmth and beauty
From the hardness of silver, wood and gold
That gave such pride and pleasure
To so many in our fold.
Now in hospice.
Just an episode
But one that signals entry
Into a new abode
Where she might again
Direct those hands
With energy and skill
With generosity of spirit
With love of family
To shape new objects
Of the mind and soul
For us.