Whose woods these are I think I know.  Robert Frost

Ganja dude,

right out of the 40’s black and whites. Only him in the color of truth.

Good stuff, jerk pork tastes the best,

(can’t call it the munchies there),

one finger’s worth, only a dime Jamaican.

 

Coconut palms, fronds, master wind conductors,

randomly flung, no farm house, no rows, perch gained along Nigril’s beach,

drifting to moonlit.

Wave rhythm, salt smell, backpack pillow, nothing,

nothing, nothing could beat this.

 

Then ganja dude, him in the color of truth,

switched frames.

 

Oaks everywhere, leafy bunches against the sky, darkest green,

no fronds, no skinny scaled perpetually layered stems,

no power to re-call the hypnotic palms.

 

Only today, maybe it was yesterday,

I can say, or said,

Whose woods these are I think I know…  

…These woods are mine, mine,

these woods I brought with me,

these woods are mine

from home.