Last weekend, during the dark, pre-dawn hours, I took Penny for a walk to the wooded area behind the library. In the dimness Penny stared intently into the woods, as if looking for small animals that might be moving through the underbrush, and I found myself looking intently into the woods as well. As the snowflakes drifted down around us, the woods indeed looked lovely, and romantic, and a bit scary all at the same time.
I don’t often think of poetry, but I found myself recalling one of Robert Frost’s better-known pieces, which probably is one of the best “snow poems” every penned:
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.