The hurt is not enough.
It goes on
the way the dusk
acquainted with the night
is bullied into silence,
black and blue,
blows followed by
I-love-you’s,
and this lover’s quarrel,
these promises to keep,
are lumps in the throat
lovely, dark and deep.
For I have had too much
of apple picking today,
and there’s no greater devotion
than being shore to ocean;
so come forth into the storm
and be my love in the rain,
as I’ve my own desert spaces
and nothing gold can stay.
This is a found poem stitching together some of my favorite lines from Robert Frost’s poetry, and so I can only take credit for the arrangement of what was already greatly composed symphonies of words. The title is taken from Frost’s epitaph: “I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.”
The artwork is featured from Writing Forward.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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