Whispered Wanderings

after Robert Frost

Under this haggard old tree in the desert: a place where,
in my imagination, a wise old man used to take his rest. He was someone
I would have wanted to know, I think. An ancient soul, long used
to being depended upon; also long accustomed to
having no one to depend on but himself. Each evening he’d climb
this hill, leave behind the noisy confusion of the city, and
quietly sigh as the day’s cares trickled from his shoulders. Nearly-silent crawl
of furtive desert critters, becomes the only thing he desires to
hear. At last, he stretches out beneath this tree and takes his rest.
He closes his eyes, the loudest sound now, from
the wind that gently whispers in with the stars in this,
his real home: the only place his soul can rest, no troubles besetting
his heart. He sleeps, having laid aside for tomorrow, all of his fears.

klm
5/1/24

(I enjoy writing Golden Shovels. For this one, I used the lines “Where someone used to climb and crawl/To rest from his besetting fears” from Robert Frost’s A Cliff Dwelling.)