She slid open the ribbon drawer, and paused, aghast, "Who destroyed the ribbons?"
I looked over her shoulder at the topsy-turvy sea of satin and grosgrain.
"What's that poem? Something that doesn't love the . . . ribbons?"
"There is something that doesn't love a wall. . ." We tried the line several times, varying the emphasis, emphasis, emphasis. "Lovers of poetry must always look up the poem when a line comes to mind but the words are out of place."
So we found it, perfect in its iambic pentameter when written this way, yoda-like, "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."
And then my eyes slid down the lines trembling with pure metrical beat and i read them aloud. "That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, and spills the upper boulders in the sun." And immediately i was in the sundrenched meadow between two orchards watching the light flicker on the tumbled stones. We chuckled when he murmured his silly magic, "Stay where you are until our backs are turned." How very true the lines rang. We, too, have murmured incantations in jest trying to shut the drawer, or close the door, or set the glass in the frame, "Stay put now!"
And then the delicious sinking in the chest and widening of our eyes as the poet took us around a corner we did not expect, causing wonder. . .is it possible we too wander into the darkness and continue to create walls without divine ordination and completed on human superstition and tradition? Is the Spirit whispering, "Someone there is who doesn't love a wall . . .between brothers"?Click here to read Mr. Frist's poem "The Mending Wall":