My Jouncing Gait During Boyhood

(an All Poetry feat to walk in the poetic feet of Robert Frost) Bucolic New England, circa Early twentieth century New England awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness, when much of North America favored rustic visual whirled wide webbed watercolor waiting afield at dusk, the thrum of nature all abuzz didst feed thine dizzily green jovial mien unlike mean Gary Lewis veritable innocence and naiveté rollicked with mine lanky frame relishing ambling into my own quietude an infinite breadth, length and scope of infrequently trammeled near virgin woodland paths grown over with brambles nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger marked by weatherbeaten for sale signposts with here and there an abandoned plow long since given over to rust when the pasture seasons elapsed since farmer(s) left unharvested fecund fields absent the cloven hoof, and deprived enrichment manure, sans ungulates ceased sufficing healthy free ranging bovines, where etudes punctuated the terribly gross fresh air, now no longer audibly quickening, snapchatting, nor twittering with the last word of a bluebird deathly silence now 'cept the wind in the willows whispering woebegone laments tree tops pining to cradle idle youthful dreamers boughs devoid of psalm quivering romantic songstress clattering debris merely delivering echoed whooshing refrains continually disintegrating among in a disused graveyard prescient ken aches with nostalgia hallucinogenic nightmare slams irrevocably shut the door in the dark closed for good upon the onset, wrought genocide against the vanishing Red man, a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual wrested, removed, and highjacked from indigenous peoples without rhyme, nor reason as fraternities no longer pledge allegiance.