Stopping by Woods While Skiing with Blythe
Whose woods these are I think I know...
They're mine, from taxes that I throw
this way and that, year after year
and rarely do I see them grow
to things made real, things made dear
for me or mine to see or hear...
This moonlit trail and falling flake,
Quiet evening, peaceful prayer.
Skupocjen Spruga, her skis, they make
a perfect sifting sound and take
my breath away, makes me weep,
the distance of her snowy wake.
Skupocjen Spruga, dark and deep,
And we have blessings yet to keep,
And miles to ski before we sleep
And dreams to keep beyond our sleep.
Amen.
-parnell
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