by Robert Frost
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
A Poetry Friday Post Lacking an Actual Poem
Poetry Friday: Numbers
The Poem House
Commonplace Book: Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Poetry As Insurgent Art
Poetry Friday: Jane’s Choice