Today Simran Khurana, in 'About dot com,' quotes a poem that seems pregnant with meaning. Does it speak of a single day, a certain age, or a lifetime?
Whence are the flowers, and whose?  Why are they faded?  Why would anyone have a question for the flowers themselves?  If you could, what would you ask? (Hm, this might be a subject for one of those idea-exploring, letters to an inanimate object!)  And how can dried flowers be a 'measure' of an absence?

What has the speaker experienced, to be gaunt and dusty gray?  Define 'roaming.'  Is this an accidental encounter?  Is anything spoken aloud...or, is this an afterthought? Who is 'I' and who 'you'?  "You walked a way beside me to make me sad to go..." is that  bittersweet, or just bitter, or regretful...and why?

Much as I eschew literary analysis, preferring,  like C.S.Lewis, to let the words have their own say, the questions keep coming.  Why this poem today?  Why me? ( I'll take this poem with me, into today.) Here it is: 

"Flower Gathering," by Robert Frost

I left you in the morning,
And in the morning glow,
You walked a way beside me
To make me sad to go.
Do you know me in the gloaming,
Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?
Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?

All for me? And not a question
For the faded flowers gay
That could take me from beside you
For the ages of a day?
They are yours, and be the measure
Of their worth for you to treasure,
The measure of the little while
That I've been long away.

Getting Unstuck

Kamy Wicoff on SheWrites.com asks what writers do when they get stuck, and the answers are many and varied
as the possibilities.  I hardly begin to describe the tip of the iceberg in my comment, vis:

"I eat.  'Works better when the edibles are nutritious--fruit, veggies, high fiber snacks, lowfat cheese, and of course DARK CHOCOLATE, tea.  I call one of my 'team.' Friends who know my writing woes and work, and encourage me to try again.  I exercise.  Walking with or without a neighbor, isometrics designed to keep me limber, stairs, laundry, groceries (yes, I call these exercise.)  Read a book.  The current one-in-progress or one that is calling my name.  Look out the window.  Nature is everywhere, waiting to be observed.  Go to a concert, lecture, reading, or art exhibit. Freebies are to be had everywhere in our city. Work in another medium than words for awhile.  Take a pencil and pad of paper on a walk, inside or outside, and record your observations without words.  Nap.  With an insistent timer set for 30 minutes or less.  Call on an older person who is isolated. The benefit is reciprocal. People watch.  At shopping center, playground, on my street.  Volunteer.  Reading stories at a nursery school is my favorite.  Cries of "Grammy Shirley's here!" really set me up.  Last but not least, bring something, anything, to run past my writers' critique group.  Gets me going, every time.  Getting stuck happens to all of us.  What we do with it is up to us."

I can still hear my father saying, jovially, but very earnestly, "Don't just sit there.  DO something!"  I agree!

In a Manner of Speaking, or, Reading into Pooh

I have discovered a delightful neo-Pooh title, THE TAO OF POOH, by
Benjamin Hoff, who uses Winnie-the-Pooh-like language to explain the
concepts of tao.  It's catching--in the following, which came into my
head on my morning walk today, I've attempted to imitate that manner of
speaking.  I can hardly wait to finish TAO and read THE TE OF PIGLET
by the same author!

"Hmphnysh," muttered Pooh, not yet quite awake.
"What?" asked Piglet.
"Love," said Pooh, stretching himself a little, and
yawning.
"Oh," said Piglet. Then, after awhile, Piglet added,
"I thought you said 'laugh.'"
Pooh, now fully awake, lost no time in setting
the record straight. "Same thing," he replied.
It was in the fall of the year, and a good day to be alive.
Eeyore nodded, as he plodded along behind them. -- SF

Where did April go?

A poem a day during April's NaPoWriMo challenge turned out to be only a dozen.  Still and all, I am glad for the challenge.  Since then I've spent eager hours preparing nearly forty pages in support of an application to spend an extended period with a small cohort under the direction of several writer-mentors.  Alas, I did not even make the 'short list' for consideration. 
But late spring and early summer have provided enough stellar days to brighten anyone's spirits, and I have intensified my efforts to weed out closets and shelves, empty boxes and bins, clear counters, desk, and my  mind for the work that is to come.  For work I shall.  I shall persevere in writing and, lordwilling, publish words of encouragement for others.
I am thankful for members of several groups (writing, spiritual growth, speaking), as well as family, neighbors and friends who support and encourage me for who I am and for who I am becoming as a writer and a person.
Is it possible that I have just entered my seventh decade?  I am still a teenager/young adult at heart, with much to learn!  I am also thankful for this.

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty, a travel poem

Get me to my group on Time.

Try as I might to be on time
just when I'm trying the hardest
something happens to hold me up
like printing out enough copies
for each one in my writing group
and developing a back kink
as I rushed to get out the door.
So it's back to the microwave
where I heat therapeutic beads
in a sack to put on my back
pause long enough for it to take,
determined to go anyway.
For once I remember to take
my purse, my keys, and all the work
that I hope I can share today.
Rain dulls the day, freshens the earth,
reminds me to take care en route.
Saturday freeways are busy
as I carefully change the lane
from entry to right, then to left,
then back to right and the exit.
I like the River Road exit,
smoothly execute the gentle turn,
gliding forward as I slow down
to a respectable thirty-five,
past the suburban train station,
a new and needed addition
to life in suburban Fridley.
I carefully pay attention
so I don't overshoot my turn
into the modest parking lot
of the Banfill-Locke Art Center,
only half an hour late.
A small bell welcomes, at the door.
My comfortably clogged feet
leave a message on the floor:
She's coming...late, again.The group
is already at work, reading
and listening to each other,
looking at their work with new eyes.
they eye me as I enter, sit,
and join in the conversation.
They welcome me, and, already,
I am calm, and  I'm affirmed.
I wouldn't miss it for anything.

A Clerihew (gesundheit!)

Just kidding; a clerihew is not a sneeze, but a specific poem form: a short biographical poem with end-rhyme scheme of  AABB but no particular rhythm.  Though national poetry month is but a memory, I want to honor its memory by activating a few of the daily prompts, to challenge my poetic brain to get itself back into writing gear (I had taken a break to submit an application requiring a forty page writing sample. And after that, a break to recover from the frenzy of doing so.)  Today, a clerihew:

I intended to write a clerihew,
or at least something to encourage you.
Unfortunately, my brain took a walk
while I frittered time away on eating and talk.

NaPoWriMo Day 18: A Lullaby

Rocking Chair Lullaby

Sweet baby-you,                   (affetuoso)
Honey-bunch-you
please me immensely.

You make me smile,
smile all the while
even while sleeping.

Now is the day
gone far away,
shadows are creeping.

What's done is done,
tell every one
they are forgiven.

Then, think of you,
what did you do:
You're also forgiven.

So close your eyes,
dream paradise,
while you are sleeping.

Sweet-baby-you,
Honey-bunch-you
please me immensely.

Honey-bunch, you
sweet- ba - by - you, 
sleep now -- in - tense - ly...  ( poco a poco Rallentando)