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"N/A in Open Poetry 8"
“Nothing gold can stay” Title of short poem by Robert Frost

Once upon a time
       I was a stream that trickled along carefree,
         knowing nothing of the mighty river
            I’d soon be merging with.

Once upon a time
       I was a small, fresh, budding flower.
         Rosy were my cheeks in youth’s frondesence.
            Brutal winters I knew nothing of.

Once upon a time
       I was a happy melody,
        gradually quickening with liveliness,
          believing that joy was the tune I’d always be carrying.

Once upon a time
        I was the swing behind my grandparents’ farm house
        on which a child’s legs could furiously pump with enough momentum 
        to bring herself closer to the sky.
           I was the ivy climbing that cozy yellow farm house
              and the country lane beside which raspberries could be plucked 
              and one could skip along on many an endless summer day.

Never did I stop to think
        one day my grandparents’ house would be repainted;
           the swing, forsaken, would disappear;
               and that country lane which seemed to stretch forever
               before it reached the highway was but a mere half mile
                when years later my grandparents had vanished too,
                 and with curiosity, I revisited                
                  that first of my many old childhood’s haunts.

Once upon a time
       I was a worshiper of sunshine,
        a seeker of four-leaf clovers,
         a watcher of clouds’ amazingly changing formations,
           a wisher upon the fluff of dandelions,
             a taster of snowflakes falling on my tongue,
              a daydreamer and a night dreamer
                 who knew the thrill of one’s body lifting off ground into flight. 

Sunshine now comes, 
         and I most often stay inside;
           I spend no time searching the grass for four-leaf clovers
            nor lying in the grass to gaze at clouds;
              I see dandelions with fluff and quickly pluck them from my lawn;
                Snow can pile up, and I’ll not be going out to play in it;
                   Seldom do I daydream, and my lovely dreams of flying
                    all have flown away.

Today - roses’ thorns have plucked my soul.
       I’ve felt many a bitter winter storm.
           Also, I can hear life’s melody rallentando.
           Sooner than I care to know, 
               it will have become a dirge.
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