R. Frost, at turning fifty, said*
that he’d be going back to school
to crack the nuts inside his head
and prove that they were not yet dead.
No fool!
He knew that there was more to age
than petrifying in a mold
or yellowing upon some page.
Past fifty could be fiery rage –
all heat, no cold!
How quickly had the decades passed
since he was young and they were old.
He’d held the modernists aghast
with lines of a Horatian cast
and English iambs bold.
He told himself, “What’s gone is gone.
Don’t pine for youth. No more of it!
I’ll stir my formed and frozen brawn
by studying my younger spawn.
No resting on my laureate!”
Like Robert, now I’m ten times five.
I seize on every new desire
to burn the dead bees in my hive
and bring their ancient queen alive –
at half a century, half-form, half-fire!**
[*Reference to Robert Frost's poem, "What Fifty Said."]
[**Alternate ending: a half a century of form and fire!]