Winter Poem

I love a good winter poem.  And though this would probably be best used in the dead of winter, it surprisingly almost gives me a quiet thrill for it, for the dead of winter, I mean. It's supposed to snow in the coming days and suddenly whatever Christmas wishes and desires I may have had have vanished from me except that of a white Christmas. As usual.  Just please be snowy. If there's a chance, then let it be real. This poem makes me want go out on a winter walk. I hope I get to.  I always love me some Bobby Frost and one thing I love about this is how he captures a pause in stillness of winter. That elusive moment I can never quite describe.  And it's almost always certain to be private.  It's simple instruction for experiencing a bit of magic when magic seems frozen.  He pauses, acknowledges that something may be happening right now, describes it, and moves on, allowing it to be the fleeting moment he supposes it was meant to be. 

 
Stopping by Woods
on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost

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.