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Every Thanksgiving my brother-in-law warns us of to stay out of my sister’s way. After a while his eyes glaze over and not even he realizes he’s saying it in response to everything from “Wanna throw the football?” to “Is there any more coffee?” T-Day is a holiday in need of a captain and I’m just thankful it’s not me.

Instead of dethawing a bird and stewing cranberries I get to entertain a three year old who thinks my name is Aunt BackRide. This one tires easy, amateur, and so I find myself with time. What better way to spend the precious than tweaking the head of my little blog?

It’s cropped from a photo I took in a stone house in Shraftsbury, Vermont. Robert Frost lived there for a short time and documents said he wrote Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening there in one sitting. In other letters, posted in the glass cases throughout the downstairs, he wrote of singing to the treeline in hopes of drawing the trees closer to the home. It didn’t work. To this day those woods are out of reach.

Frost was the first poet I ever loved, the first one to feel like my own discovery. An undisputed master of his craft, he left behind a body of work that can still nail you down to his place and time. Other poets can do this, it’s one of the things they do, but Frost’s place is all at once cozy and cold, a pause in a snowstorm, a moment filled with life and death (Frost denied interpretations that this poem is about death, but as he grew older he noted understanding such a reading).

I hope you take a pause. Make a promise you’ll keep. Extra points for riding a horse. And with that she’s awake.

Robert Frost stone house Shraftsbury, Vermont

Treeline from stone house

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