to watch his woods fill up with snow
– a golden shovel based on Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
sometimes your work, your job, the place you are going to
is not more important than the time it takes to watch
the change of season, the falling flakes. Father Time – his
relentless pursuit of us over fields, lake, hill, and woods
can be reversed, stopped dead, when we take time to fill
our senses, our brains, our souls, fill ourselves up
with bird song, rosebuds, starlight. go. fill yourself up with
snow
Feet crunch in satisfying snow
not the slush
as the time the truck driver had
no time to slow his wheels
the feeling of being drenched
is like accidentally falling
into an ocean
the city girl came back to the island
fell off the edge of the boat
snickers hummed around the crowd
I can still build myself up
when I am sopping wet.
The everlasting drip of the tap
won’t break me.
Or will it?
I really like the rhythm of you poem.
I understand the sensation of being wet through your words. Very creative, great imagery.
You’ve posted your poem as a comment to mine. You need to post this on your own page in order for the most people to see it.