The Ripton Sunset

Woke up this damp morning, read Frost on the morning porch, including Mowing Lawn. And remembered I've been re-writing this sonnet for over two years. As the seasons roll, I thought it with the drying autumn leaves were best put out.
And yes Mike Goodwin, it has something to do with Rob't Frost. 



The Ripton Sunset

There never was a sound from this cottage but one,
Can you hear it? The wind is a scratching pencil,
Etching, revising, a Yankee’s Natural verse,
Share with me the sunset cowl processing behind
Moosalamoo, enshrouding Bread Loaf with the dusk,
Here, this oak tree he leaned against and sat before
While poking fire embers with the sapling stick
Cut for him by Tatoskok, used so every night,
Until well burnt and blackened to a pencil lance,
With which he wrote Vermont’s bold landscapes, sparing scrap,
Sit here on this scone of stones, where he scratched his crown,
(perhaps) while college undergrads attended ‘round,
And count his scores, in this mown field we well know,
Of grass he scythed, made hey, in neat parsed six foot rows