Stopping By Snowy Woods, and the Roads Not Taken

It's mid-January now, we are well on past the shortest day of the year, and we rejoice in the extra daylight. And so when my work day was done, we put on our coats and our boots and our gloves, and we walked up the hill to the woods for some fresh air.

It had snowed overnight, just a little bit each time, on Friday night and on Saturday night. So the ground was white, and there were tracks everywhere. People, dogs, horses, deer, rabbits, squirrels.

Light snowflakes began to fall, and I cherished the sound, enjoyed their gentle touch, soft as angel wings.

We hiked for several miles, further than we expected. I hadn't been out of the house all weekend, and the cold, fresh air felt good. I was glad to be alive, glad to be outside.

On our way back, we stopped and looked down these two paths, but did not take either of them. A third path was the way home. But I thought about that fellow Frost, one of my favorite poets. And about his poems, of course.

The first poem, that one about the two roads, and how the choice of the less traveled road made all the difference. In Frost, we find a kindred spirit, for we are also sojourners on the less traveled road.

Unless, of course, it is the road home, and then that's the one we take, for there's a Tabbycat waiting there, and he is hungry for his supper. . . (Did Frost have Tabbycats? I wonder to myself.)

The second was the one about stopping by woods on a snowy evening, and I actually recited its first verse out loud, enunciating crisply into the cold, into the sky, into the snow, into the darkening air. I spoke it like I was the one who wrote it.

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.

The winter scene: darkening woods, light snow falling. And us, of course, adding our own tracks to the snowy landscape. My husband, as always, business-like, leading our march through the woods, setting a good pace.

And me, following at a somewhat less sprightly pace, reciting these precious words, putting musicality into them. Me, the prancing pony (give those harness bells a shake). Me, happy in the cold, fresh air. Me, an erstwhile poet amid the falling snow.

The song: Enya, Amid the Falling Snow.

P.S. This I added later . . . Yes, it turns out that Robert Frost had a dog and several cats. And some of you may enjoy a short poem I came across, supposedly written by Robert Frost's cat, Sitting by the Fire on a Snowy Evening. :-) Enjoy!

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