The trouble with growing up
In idyllic New England
Is tending to forget
What a paradise it is.
The old barns and the deep woods,
The seasons painted on oak trees,
The held breath of winter
And the brief burst of spring –
All this can be commonplace,
As boring as apples,
When you’re weaned on maple,
Fed by the leaping deer;
It may take a lifetime
To see it like a stranger,
For whom the spidering frost
Is a jewel as rare as gold.
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