The Hocking Hills Festival of Poetry



Itís March, and Iím ready for spring, and it shouldnít be snowing again. But when I step outside into the white frosted woods, I am struck by the scene and canít help but smile.

          This moment takes me back in time, to the discovery of a poem by the well known American poet, Robert Frost:

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

          One long ago day in class my younger self actually discovered what the poem meant and thereby pleased the teacher. But more importantly, it made me realize that poetry was not the deep mystery that I had up until then thought that it was. The realization imitated the poem in that I was shocked into a new mindset by a small event.

          Frost defined poetry as something that takes you to a place you forgot, and never thought youíd return to; or takes you to a place youíve never been and gives you an experience there. Todayís snow has returned me to this poem, which seems to have gained richness in the intervening years - no longer intellectualized, but a felt part of myself.