The Words Not Spoken
(after Robert Frost)
Whose words these are, I think I know.
She couldn’t bear to speak them, though.
Instead, she let me find them here,
And she departed with the snow.
My friends will likely find it queer
To see me walk without her near
Down to the park and by the lake
Where I proposed to her last year.
The hands that hold her missive shake.
I’m sure there must be some mistake.
Her graceful letters swirl and sweep
As whirling winds would toss a flake.
My heart is lonely, dark and deep,
But I have only words to keep
And memories plague my fitful sleep,
And memories plague my fitful sleep.
— Stace Johnson, 2002