Graveside, with Robert Frost

I spent ten distinct minutes
At the Bennington cemetery
Where Robert spends the rest of his eternity.

Here in Vermont, the distant land of strength,
“It snowed in spring on earth so dry and warm,”
as he once put it.

Far from the world of setting Ezra free,
And from the Washington of festivals,
A slab is now his blanket all year round.

He did not write only for presidents;
Great poetry belongs to all of us.