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.”