Whose tracks these are I do not know,
But I will drive upon them so
I do not end up skidding here
Into the woods filled up with snow.
My little car must think it queer
To drive without a pathway clear
Between the woods and frozen creek,
The slipp'riest morning of the year.
He gives his wobbly wheels a shake
To slide away from some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of snowplows shoving slush and flakes.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have classes I must teach,
And miles to skid before I sleep,
And miles to skid before I sleep.
(With apologies to Robert Frost.)
4 comments:
You're brilliant, Bev! Made my morning!
Thanks! Hope your roads are smooth and clear!
Brilliant, indeed. Frost would be proud to call you kin.
Bev -- I read somewhere that you like bringing colleagues together. I think you should bring me -- pessimisticshrink.blogspot.com and Nicola -- http://thesnarkascending.blogspot.com/ -- together. That is, sharpened penises and snarks. Other than that, yours is the only blog I can stand to read. -- Fr.
Post a Comment