Robert Frost’s Birthday
He wrote a short poem about the end of the world. Quick rhymes of ice and twice, fire and desire, as if we could weigh the manner of apocalypse and pick a preference.
You are not given a choice. A chemical change occurs in the air itself, and as you breathe in, it feels like burning match heads enter your nostrils. Instead of sulfur or ash, there’s a crisp hint of chlorine, and you feel the hard scratch of icy crystals along your sinuses.
“It’s both,” you want to tell the poet.
What happens next does not suffice.