(Inspired by “Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost)
I do not know whose woods these are.
They must belong to shades of stars,
their fires concealed behind the skies:
a bruise and made by branches scar.
The pond is soft and full of lies
and lovely bright, with snow it sighs.
It makes no mirror of my brow;
too thin my pallor, dark my eyes.
The frost and wind set on a row
and send to heave an icy bow.
I feel a ghost now haunts my earth
of sullen fields and rusted plow.
This snow is mine and yet it hurts.
To Winters born, before my birth.
I must drift on and haunt my earth.
I must drift on and haunt my earth.