by Gus Peterson
after “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost
Whose will this was I think I know.
Their city high, on a high hill though.
So I do not expect they as yet fear
what’s swept beneath the snow.
Their little minds must think it queer,
our talk of stopping death before death nears.
Between lacquered lane, a slice of pie
October’s moon shone, darkest of the year.
Can we deafen profit’s jingled, quarterly ring?
Make ourselves anew? Cease blood’s sing?
However passing’s bullet passes us by…
one way, one path to changing things.
Step into these woods, lonely and deep.
Promises unkept, promises to keep.
Oh, how many rounds before sleep?
Too much snow for me to sleep.
Gus Peterson lives in Maine.