where the writers are
Robert's Wrongs

By Barbara Audet 

Frost, you have no idea 
How stark the turn is 
In my wood. 

At my house, so tempered 
By the pester call 
Of snow and wind. 

Like my vanity, 
Showing signs of 
Mortal foundation cracks. 

Timbers eaten by 
Generations of old and young 
Who dangerously table 
At my hearth. 

No, when you faced 
That wintry stoppage 
Sane and unsane solutions 
Bifolded open. 

In the blankness of a poet’s blur 
Of dreamy justification. 

The turn on my hill? 
The wall lies stunned. 

A once haughty barricade 
Of well-mortared 
Thoughts, just ballast. 

While the cyclone of nature’s voices 
Breaking thoughts to dust 
Is answerless.