“…Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words...”

Time.

Just once, I’d give anything to have been a fly on the wall of Robert Frost’s office; poised on the window near where Mr. Frost sat, watching as he bounced things around in his head, perhaps chewing on a pencil end or puffing on his pipe, and at last, him finding the right words, watching him set pen to paper… watching just for the fun of it. Why not?

Then I’d fly off, marveling at a human who had time to write…