Some boy

Birches need to be subdued
And are to be kept straight.

The glass of our sacred sky
Lies in hill as in a car crash.

Splinters shine as tiny suns
Fallen from the bent birch.

Some boy had to climb sky
To make trees green sticks

So like soft children’s bones
They do not break on a fall.

If there is wind, they bend
But come back to standing.

Birches are not dad- owned
But some boy has to climb.

A tree stood in street corner
Some boy had not climbed.

Against recent wind in rain
It had no green stick bones.

(Reading Robert frosts’ poem “Birches” )

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s