On my wedding invitations, I printed a line from Robert Frost, and a guest, mistaking Carl Sandburg for crusty Frost, gave us a collection of Sandburg’s poems.
I woke this frosty morning thinking of a poem we read aloud in my fifth grade class, in the basement of a three-story brick building later converted to senior housing. Although I grew up in wooded New Hampshire, far from any harbor or city, the poem’s perfect for kids – short and muscled, primed to pounce, cat-like.
Here’s the past again materializing: I’ve long since forgotten that teacher’s name, or even anyone else in the class. Yet I distinctly recall sitting there as a quiet kid wearing orange tights, in a warm classroom where the basement windows opened to the back driveway, loving this poem.
Hard frost last night. Wearing winter coats, the 12-year-old and I walked last evening, the stars overhead, passing no one.
“Fog”The fog comeson little cat feet.It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.
Stony Soil Vermont 
That was one of my Grandfathers favorite poems too. I remember him reciting it to my son when he was not yet two. Tristan thought it was the best thing ever, laughing and clapping his hands. My son is grown and my Grandfather gone now.
You loved words as early as fifth grade. I think you either do or you don’t. Same with music. And gardening.