The Frost Place
is a three hour drive from my house. Last week, I walked up the path to the farmhouse where the poet spent his summers writing and avoiding hay fever. I embarrassed myself when I stepped onto the porch, peered through the mist at mountains I did not know the names of, met the young intern from Darthmouth, and got large sentimental tears in my eyes. But maybe this happens to every poet who goes up there.
I had been invited to talk about poetry and teaching poetry. When I went into the barn where my students were huddled, I saw the pictures of all the famous poets who had been here before us. My teacher Rosanna Warren smiled out of her frame. I felt like I belonged. That night, I talked about The Woman Who Named God for the first time in public. I was afraid my audience would be bored, but they told me they enjoyed it. Did they? I don’t know. But I left feeling like it was time to start writing my new book. Really writing it. A good sign.