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.
John and Elizabeth quarreled,
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.
This article appears in December 2009.
