A Snowy Evening

I've been in a river of Swiftly Moving Inspiration lately. All winter and druids and things that go bump in time. ooh pretty good trailer there!

Things that fascinate me today ( I have a sort of kaleidoscope of fascinations) are my daughter’s new interest in poetry. I used to write poetry from third grade to about age 25 when children and life knocked the stuffings out of me—mostly in a good way.

I met the most famous poets alive at the time- Richard Hugo, David Wagoner, Robert Bly, Gary Snyder, even William Stafford. I was completely blessed to be in the midst of greatness during my early twenties. It had a profound effect on me.

Poetry is a gateway drug that leads to fiction. It also leads to the love of language and tight imagery if you really sink your teeth into it.

Then fiction will lead you back to poetry because as we all know Fiction eats you alive and spits you out like a hairball and then you crawl back to poetry to make you broth and tea and cinnamon toast and soothe your soul.

So here is an old poem about winter many of us read in school. It has always been one of my favorites.


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's 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.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! Suzanne