Whose woods these are I think I know.
It’s quite obvious if you have eyes to see
Posted private property signs along the road
Meant to keep out trespassers who can read.
Not the creatures that exist in this habitat
Adapting to life in proximity to people
Doing what is required to survive the changes
Fields of crops and farm animal pastures impose.
The poem says his house is in the village,
though;
If you were told that house is a church and he
is God
Think instead about the bank with its temple
columns
Holding the mortgages as promises to keep.
Robert Frost’s little horse must think it queer
The literary interpretation glosses over the
history
What something there is that does not love a
wall
The land once undivided belonging to the
natives.
Imagine a map that displays only where you may set
foot
That would show public spaces, walkways and
streets
Marking every other place out of bounds
Leaving narrow corridors between parks like
islands.
So little remains of the shared commons
That has been carved up and parceled out
That’s how we live today not giving it a
thought
Individuals squatting each on our separate
plot.
But humanity congregates in large cities
Succeeding as a species because we cooperate
Building communities through volunteer
organizations
Neighbors without fences caring to help each other.
The poetry that praises life in rural agrarian
times past
So wistful looking back at a false idyllic
scene
As if the dairy farms with their introduced
species
Arrived to settle in an empty unoccupied
landscape.
That solitary road less traveled is best not
taken
Though the yellow woods are lovely, dark and
deep
Being a social animal so full of words with
thoughts
Being conscious because we talk living together.
