I’m getting a lot of teasing from my friends up north about my enthusiasm over the snowfall we’ve had recently. For those of us in the south, when snow falls, we slow down and stare. We take it all in, we breathe deeply and we stand in awe. I’ve taken over 100 photos of the snow. Yes, I’m savoring these precious days that are a dime a dozen the further north you roam. You see, we don’t get to enjoy winter in full bloom too often.
These photos reminded me of a poem. One of my favorite poems, actually. The writer, Robert Frost, lived in New England where they see snow by the truck loads, or so I’m told. Yet, he appreciated its beauty. He took the time to write about it. He says what I feel. Here it is, in case you might have forgotten. 🙂
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
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.
Admiring His handiwork,
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