Robert Frost. My first meaningful encounter with poetry occurred in fifth grade when Mr. C (still my favorite teacher) had us memorize “Stopping By Woods” and then we chalked our impressions of the poem onto dark blue construction paper. These were then pinned all around the classroom as the border above the chalkboard. As I teach this poem to my students I learn more and more from it. Frost does that with his poetry. It appears so deceptively simple at first and then there is a realization of its depth. It can be almost embarrassing at times once the analytical epiphany hits.

But I can’t imagine Frost laughing at my denseness–no, he would probably only chuckle. I imagine he might even be amused at the fuss we make analyzing his commentaries on birches, walls, and the snowy woods.

Frost is one of my faves and thought it very appropriate to…

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