by Robert Frost

It is right in there

Betwixt and between

The orchard bare

And the orchard green,

When the boughs are right

In a flowery burst

Of pink and white,

That we fear the worst.

For there’s not a clime

But at any cost

Will take that time

For a night of frost.

——————————————————————————–

… I remember

your face, like fog in a morning orchard;

so gentle and still and forming in my mind

until the trees begin to ring.

A soft hymn of stones

may answer from the shrouded hills,

but we will be asleep by then.

from Hymn of Stones

12/11/98