Your half-decade here—“the Franconia
years”—bonded depths of pain with growing fame.
Fresh from England, shouldering praise and a
pair of first books, you let Henry Holt claim
you; sought and purchased this farm and small home,
porch framing the White Mountains. Elinor
miscarried. Word came of Edward. You’d roam
the woods, grieve, collect plants, let rhythms pour
into you, mold them to verse while rocking
slowly at your cluttered desk. The kids played.
Elinor weaved wit and silence, locking
you in and out, and you her. Still, you stayed
linked like root and earth; held close through tremors
from love’s madness, death, your great lion’s roar.
Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2007
