Woods

Woods always have “color.” In the spring comes the hint of buds in pinkish/purple pastels later mixed with the tinge of chartreuse leaflets. Summer has tones of green then green-upon-green on massive trees, lesser brother trees and forest undergrowth. Fall isn’t the least bashful about its colors (spring’s are muted) and in a giving mood shares its brilliance with the forest floor. Yes, winter has its own woodsy colors – in the past I’ve called them “brownish-gray” or “grayish-brown” and never quite decided which is most fitting.

– eab, 4/6/17 WP 4/8/17

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Robert Frost – birth, Mar. 26, 1874

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 the 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.

 

Robert Frost was born this date (3/26/1874) in San Francisco , CA.  He wrote the favorite “The Road Not Taken” and many others poem.  I heard him live on the radio read his poem at John F. Kennedy’s inauguration.

 

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