Inspired from research and analysis I did with Robert Frost's poetry collection, I wrote an imitation poem similar to his style that represents one of my most creative pieces every written. I hope that you enjoy it and see some of the similarities to Frost's work.
A vineyard owner— his estate next door,
His bellowing voice waking the morning.
Exiting my cottage, small it is, too.
Country road, that could lead me to the town.
Though, perhaps, a disconcerting feeling
Is what kept me on stretches of farmland.
“Why the cypress trees?” asked I, one past day.
“Oh, it blocks the wind, for the crops I grow.”
I peer through the aperture, nonetheless;
Men and women working is all I see.
My neighbor sits atop his porch, dozing,
What the cypresses don’t want me to spot
Centimeters apart, the trees, they are.
Quite an art form, until I see behind
That it isn’t really the wind he hides—
Endless system of labor, those workers.
So I make it final: I’ll speak to him,
Him who hides with cypress trees and fences.
Blossoming leaves, exquisite fruit, near them:
Bent backs and dry tears where it springs— one side.
“I live there,” I say to the laborers,
Almost in an attempt to justify.
They say nothing, hoping that I can see.
And as I approach the man: king, divine.
He stiffens, something tense about his gaze,
A facade of a smile, then a stern frown.
Who let him in, he probably ponders,
Though this land doesn’t belong to either.
Thirty years ago, this plot was barren.
And now my neighbor acts like it’s his;
Thus when I ask about the men out there,
And the women moaning on the farmland,
The orchard owner looks straight towards me.
“Oh, it’s a lovely type of work they do.
Care to have an apple, plucked straight from there?”
But I object, those apples are not mine.
“I would leave them the fruit of their labor,”
That is all that I could say, that moment.
When I put myself to sleep that strange night,
I know that my neighbor dozes soundly,
With the cypress trees that he hides behind.