The day I visited Robert Frost’s old place in New Hampshire in July, the house was closed to visitors. A poet-in-residence was living there for the summer – part of the winning hand of an award they won – and I could feel their eyes on me, penetrating through windows both peaceable and haunting – as I loped carefully around the humble grounds as if I were in a cathedral inspecting statues and stained-glass. The warm summer morning was so fair it might as well have been cradling me in its hands. A respectable silence existed there, outside of a bird-choir making their way through the scheduled musical program of the day. Behind the house was a barn, before the barn, a bench. The silence was broken by the humorous voice of an old-timer sitting there, a voice with a tone of “don’t take the world too seriously”. It startled me at first because I hadn’t seen him sitting there in the morning sun like a hound dog with crevices and folds among his farmer-tanned skin. “I don’t care for poetry myself,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then a broad smile indicated he reveled in being a goof. He told me he was the caretaker for the house and property, and chattered a moment. I got in my car and drove away in reverence, reverence, at the foot of the White Mountains.