Only More Sure

I wanted to share this- a poem I've carried for at least half of my life, something that hit me once in my childhood, in the days of proto-Kell, in the wonderfully ambiguous days of the formation of the person I would become.

Perhaps this is something, like most of the words of the great poet laureate, most capable of reaching those empathetic souls who similarly came into being amongst the forests and snows of New Hampshire, or those of us infected with that strangest of bugs: the one which simultaneously instills in one a great wanderlust as well as wonder at remaining in a single, simple place for a seeming eternity. Or perhaps, as I hope, it's universal:

 Into My Own, Robert Frost

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day	5
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track	10
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

I wrote this onto cranes 84-82 and placed them on the benches and rocks where I always see people sitting, hoping someone will get curious.