March 26

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.