Starlings rise in a wave
as Robert Frost ducks out
the library that bears his name

then cuts ahead on the path,
the path that leads to the sea.
He waits not at all at the crosswalk

but darts out, eying the driver
who stops just in time.
Striding across the Common

he pauses to throw stones
at the children who struggle
to master their wobbling first bikes.

Wobbling a bit himself,
he scratches the thoughts
in his head for the language

of his past. “Who says I’m wobbling?”
he suddenly turns to ask, “words
tap at my skull like sandpipers

at the beach as they follow
the tide out, certain of the phrase
that is always within reach.”