Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I have a bit of the seasonal bug. I am frothing at the mouth, stomping my feet upon the pavement as a manifestation of my discontent with the weather. I am tired of this loathsome heat. This complete saturation of the air with 100% humidity. So beyond done with the swarms of mosquitos that chase after you with their little needles outstretched ready to suck you dry. The air was relatively dry a couple of days ago. It was fabulous. I actually was able to move outside without being weighed down with sweat–my actions a little less languid and strained than normal.
But, it’s back to full-on suckage again today–literally and figuratively.
I’m ready for fall. I’m ready for winter. I just want cold air! Snow would be optimal. I need to move.
Robert Frost knows what I’m talkin’ about.
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.
I’m totally getting a tattoo of that in some form or fashion–at a point in the future where I gots monies.