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Poem: Trespassing On Frost 

I pass over the police tape

and enter his yard

I wonder if the flicker of light in

the corner of my eye

is from him peering out through his curtains

or from a candle he has left lit on the table.

I sift through his garbage, his apple-bin

I climb his ladder up his apple tree just to see how it feels

I examine his woodchuck holes

to see if he, like Frost, is sleeping,

or if we will have six more weeks of winter.

The police are questioning a little boy

about climbing trees

as Truth broke in

But I am studying the trees themselves,

the birches;

bending while ascending.

  • A poem by Tom O' Dowd.

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