A RUT OR A FURROW?
A happy side to my bad memory
Is that I get to write a poem again,
Forgetting how I’d done it previously
Or if, indeed, there are another ten
On the same topic in my copious stack
Reflecting how my ambulations turn
And turn again on the well-trodden track,
Obsessed perhaps until at last I learn.
Something there is I need to figure out
And find the perfect, final way to say,
Eradicating at the last all doubt
And finding in my quest confusion’s stay—
And so it was, as I remember now,
For Frost, who finally could rest his plow.