Stopping by My Woods
Which poet this is I think I know,
that drives his sleigh by in the snow
and stops to watch it fill my wood,
and then moves on — I seen him go.
I’d ride more often if I could,
and catch him in that neighborhood.
But I’m too busy tendin’ store
and scrapin’ up a livelihood.
I bought that farm in twenty-four
but we don’t live out there no more.
Can’t make a livin’ off that land
with prices nowadays, that’s for sure.
That feller thinks the snow’s so grand,
but wouldn’t never lend a hand
to shovel off the village’s
sidewalks and steps, I understand.
Oh, by the way, my business is
in feed and grain, and harnesses.
But he don’t never come on down
to feed that spooky horse of his.
He ain’t got time to stick around,
’cause for another place he’s bound,
with miles to go beyond our town —
yup, miles to go beyond our town.
Published in WestWard Quarterly, Winter 2004
©2004 Laudemont Press