We Are All Poets

On my coffee table sits The Collected Poems of Robert Frost. When I walk by, I turn the delicate pages to one of my favorite poems, My November GuestEach time I read the piece, I discover something new, a hidden meaning, a beautiful image to ponder.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reasons why.
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