On a Rainy Day

With all due respect to Robert Frost, only I can butcher a poem make (silent) poetry readings complicated:

x

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His Our houses is are in the village though;

He will not mind No one will see me stopping here

To watch these woods fill up with deer … (rhymes with snow, but isn’t snow because it is 60 degrees F outside, in February)

x

x

My little giant horse dog must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse dogbed near

Between the woods and frozen lake flowing creek

The darkest evening wettest morning of the year.

x

x

He gives his harness bells doggie tags a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep drip
Of easy wind and downy flake wood-y drake.

x

x
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.

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