Several years ago I lived with my best friend Laura. Now she was one of two incredible roommates I’ve had, but that was a lovely year. We lived in a bright, sunny apartment, in a large white house with a dark green front door. I fell in love for the first time that year, and I discovered beautiful things. When the weather turned cool Laura started sprinkling cinnamon in our coffee before it brewed each morning, and left this Robert Frost poem on the kitchen table in early November.
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.