The old man takes a nap <br />too soon in the morning. <br />His coffee cup grows cold. <br /> <br />Outside the snow falls fast. <br />He'll not go out today. <br />Others must clear the way <br /> <br />to the car and the shed. <br />Open upon his lap <br />lie the poems of Mr. Frost. <br /> <br />Somehow his eyes get lost <br />in the words and the snow, <br />somehow they go <br /> <br />backward against the words, <br />upward among the flakes <br />to the blankness of air, <br /> <br />the busy abundance there. <br />Should he take warning? <br />Mr. Frost went off, they say, <br /> <br />in bitterness and despair. <br />The old man stirs and wakes, <br />hearing the hungry birds, <br /> <br />nuthatch, sparrow, and jay <br />that clamor outside, unfed, <br />and words stir from his past <br /> <br />like this irritable sorrow <br />of jay, nuthatch, and sparrow, <br />wrath which no longer takes <br /> <br />shape of sentence or song. <br />He climbs the stairs to bed. <br />The snow falls all day long.<br /><br />Hayden Carruth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/february-morning/
