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.

*