Poetry
Lover’s Quarrel
I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.
—Robert Frost’s epitaph
Like viewing the blunder
in a slight mix of pigments
after the paint is applied
I hear recrimination
enter your voice, much
as you would never want it.
as did Martha and George.
Some put quarrels on tombstones.
But I want your flower.
I want you to take my hand
and walk with me, walking
to where no blunders show,
where the eaves after frost
are radiant and solid.
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